Hot Patootie, Bless My Soul
by Harvey Elwood
Summary: It is early August 1975 in London, England. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson attend Secondary School together, John plays on the rugby team and Sherlock is in a punk band. Sherlock decides to finally take John on a proper date and takes him out to see the premiere of Rocky Horror Picture Show. (AU Teen!lock and Punk!lock. No major spoilers for RHPS or Sherlock.)
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock held his boyfriends face in his hands as he wildly attacked the younger boy's mouth with his tongue. They were sitting in a park bench in front of a fountain in town. It was early August 1975 in London, England, still, homosexuality wasn't quite yet there to being fully accepted (which was a very generous way of putting it) but Sherlock and John really didn't bloody care. Which was, incidentally, exactly what Sherlock said to his Headmaster.

"Master Holmes," Sherlock's Headmaster said to him from across a large wooden desk, he looked down at the young punk disapprovingly, "It was my point to call you in here for your lewd behavior you displayed on the rugby pitch with your…" the Headmaster trailed off, unaware of what to call John. Sherlock could see a lot of terms going through the Headmaster's mind, including "friend", "special friend", "partner in crime", "other", and the one he wanted to use most: "camping boyfriend." Sherlock sneered at the man for this.

The Headmaster went on, "I also want to prove a point to you _while _you're in here that we _do _have a dress code. This is very easy to go by as you were given a uniform at the start of term."

The Headmaster looked down to what Sherlock was wearing, which was his uniform. Kind of. Okay, so maybe in a fit of frustrated rage one day he'd cut off the sleeves of his jacket and long-sleeved button-down, and maybe he _had _spray-painted the Anarchy symbol on the back of the sport-coat. Fine, maybe he'd "forgotten" his tie at home, and maybe, just maybe he'd shaved just a bit of his hair off on the one side. Just a little bit.

"Not to draw attention away from the main point of your punishment, Holmes. You were creating lewd behavior with…" the Headmaster tried to think of a term again, then decided, "with John Watson. Which, not only is disruptive to the campus, but also, Holmes, what you're doing with another man. Another person of the same sex. It's completely unnatural."

Sherlock had put his index finger and middle finger to his lips and put them back down when he realized he wasn't actually smoking. He crossed his legs before looking his Headmaster straight in the eyes and saying, "I don't bloody care."

That had earned him kitchen duty doing dishes, a call to his parents, and detention time. When Sherlock rehashed the story to John afterwards on the park bench in front of the fountain, John just tipped his head back and laughed. "Bloody hell, Sherlock," John smiled widely, "you really let him have it didn't you?"

"John, I could have done immensely worse and you know it."

"That's true," John nodded and smiled at his boyfriend. Then they were kissing in an instant. Although, both John and Sherlock thought John to be a punk, a _real_ punk like Sherlock was a real punk; John didn't let it show in what he wore as much. He was a rugby man, so, really he didn't care all that much of how he looked.

With Sherlock's long and slender fingers pushing their way through John's tangled locks of blonde hair (he never cared to brush it) and John's arms wrapped completely around Sherlock's waist they snogged each other in public.

Their kissing became so intrusive with each other's space, that Sherlock had taken John's earlobe into his ear, and said, "I want you on this bench right now."

John laughed, "Don't be so unromantic."

"Park benches are romantic," Sherlock defended.

"No, they're not," John argued, and, still through this they continued snogging.

"You want to make them romantic?" Sherlock breathed into John's ear and then bit down on it.

John let out a little sigh that let Sherlock know he was aroused as he was. Sherlock let his hand travel down to John's shoulder, his chest, abdomen, and then finally palming his crotch. "Sherlock, we can't," John said, "I don't have protection."

Sherlock grunted, he didn't have any on himself either, and when they started dating, John had laid down the law very seriously when they started snogging. "If we ever do this," John said, with his tongue just extracted from Sherlock's mouth, "I'm not going to do it without a condom and lubrication."

Sherlock had argued for the sake of argument, "John," he'd said, "we're not going to get pregnant."

"That's not what I'm worried about, Sherlock," John said.

"I'm not diseased. I don't have infections. Do you?"

"No, I don't have that either," John said, "I just won't do it without a condom and lubrication."

Sherlock was always going to be taken aback when his boyfriend said that, he had never even said "lube", he said "lubrication". Not until later when Sherlock had told him again and again that it was just much easier to say "lube" because it was shorter, and if you said "lubrication" – that could mean anything, but if you said "lube" people knew you were talking about sex-lube.

"You little twat," had said lovingly to his boyfriend and best mate, cupping his chin and pulling him in for another infuriating kiss, "you _are _going to be a doctor, aren't you?"

Sherlock was pulled back into reality on the park bench when John asked, "Sherlock, do you have anything on you?"

"No," he grunted, then brightened, "I think I might have one in my bedside table, though."

"I have a whole box at my house," John said, standing from the bench and trying to pull his boyfriend by the hand towards his home.

"My house is closer," Sherlock said.

"I have lube too," John said.

_"My house is closer," _Sherlock repeated, as if he could win the argument by that.

John tried to make an argument, "You said you _might _have _one _condom in your bedside table. And you don't have lube. Come on, just come to my house, we'll be safer there in all aspects of the word."

Sherlock responded by literally picking his boyfriend up and throwing him over his shoulder, carrying him towards his house. If John wasn't so angry he was being manhandled he might have been impressed with how strong Sherlock had gotten.

John could put up a good fight, and was finally able to get back on his feet, and told Sherlock very firmly that if he wanted to have sex it would be at his house with the protection or nothing. Sherlock, not wanting to miss out on an opportunity for sex, decided to take the tube with his boyfriend to his house. On the way there, John talked Sherlock ear off all about taking care of condoms.

"I bet you didn't even check the expiration date on the condom, Sherlock," John said, "they _do _have expiration dates, you know. And you're supposed to keep them in an aluminum tin so their away from cold and heat and they can't be bent. Are you listening to me, Sherlock? This is vital. You need to know this."

Sherlock was half-listening, the information wasn't that complex that it required his full attention. Chemistry required his full attention, so did physics and puzzles and mind games and music. The Care and Feeding of Your Condoms by John Watson (no matter how sexy) wasn't as complex.

"Do you still carry yours in your wallet?" John asked.

"Of course," Sherlock answered, mostly staring at his boyfriend's lips.

"No, don't do that, Sherlock," John scolded, "from now on, aluminum tins only."

"Well if you're so knowledgeable about safe sex, Professor Watson," Sherlock challenged, "How come you haven't got any on you? I could be buggering you on the park bench right now."

"I _should _fucking carry around protection," John stated, "My boyfriend. The Traveling Sex Circus. Exhibitionism? On a park bench!"

"Traveling Sex Circus?" Sherlock's ears perked up, "That's good. That's good, John." Sherlock got a pen out from his pocket and wrote the term down on his arm, "That's good. That'll be our new band name."

Sherlock was technically in a band, with a guy named Greg Lestrade and a girl named Molly Hooper. John didn't actually know them too well. He had seen them in passing at a party he'd gone to with Sherlock though. Sherlock only knew piano and violin of course, which was hard to incorporate into a punk band, but somehow they did. Molly, John had thought, looked mousy. But Sherlock had warned him, if you called her out for not being a "real punk" she'd do something to make sure you knew how real of a punk she was.

One night, after a band called out from the audience at a gig that Molly Hooper was not only a "shit singer" but "not even punk at all" and to top it all off "probably a Good Little Christian Girl" Molly had calmly walked off of the stage, found a crowbar (where, no one knew, but Sherlock guessed from in the locked cabinet in the restroom at the back of the club) and went outside and smashed all the windows in every car on the street.

The moral of the story was, in short; Do not piss of Molly Hooper because she will fuck not only you but _everyone _up.

Greg was so proud of her for doing this; he went out and bought her the biggest sundae he could find an ice cream place to order in England. (After they were able to get away from the coppers.)

Finally, after that little story from Sherlock to a giggling John they unlocked the front door of John's house, said "hello" to the family, excused themselves to go into John's room to "work on something" (eye-roll from Harry, nod and smile from Mum) Sherlock pushed John roughly to the bed and started ravishing his mouth again.

"We gotta be quiet," John reminded Sherlock.

"I can't wait to have you where _no one _can hear us," Sherlock growl-whispered, "because I'm going to make you fucking scream when that happens."

"Oh, Sherlock," John let out a little whimper, "keep talking to me like that and I might."

"Where are those condoms you were talking about?" Sherlock growled as he shoved off his trousers and pants. John reached around to find the drawer of his bedside table which held not only the bottle of lube but the aluminum tin full of twelve condoms (soon to be eleven), different pairs of socks and pants, and if you knew to look for it, a porn magazine hidden beneath those.

As John pushed off his own clothes and Sherlock rolled the condom onto his penis and squirted out some lube, the moment melted away into the aching acknowledgements of hands, tongues, and muffled noises of sex trying to be kept hidden.

Afterwards, the two lay on their backs on the small bed and tried to catch their breath. Sherlock was also trying to light up a cigarette as he did so, but John made him go and stand by an open window if he was going to smoke in his house.

"So bossy, little Watson," Sherlock said, standing in full nude in front of the open window, holding a cigarette between an index finger and a middle finger.

John, with his legs still tangled in the bed-sheets and also in full nude (he was trying to remember how one of his socks came off but the other managed to stay on) rolled his eyes at the condescending "pet name". Then moved on, "Sherlock, do you have any idea of what those will do to you?"

John, on the other hand, didn't mean it to be condescending; he genuinely wanted to know what Sherlock felt about the Cancer Stick perched pleasantly like a bird between his fingers.

In reply, Sherlock put it back between his lips, sucked hard, held the tobacco in his lungs, and then blew it out the window. "Kill me, I hope," Sherlock said, "then I won't have to listen to you nag me all the time."

John launched into an entirely new nagging spree how protection was _fucking important _even if you were a homosexual/undiseased couple because it was just _fucking good hygiene _and he was _"nagging" _all the time about protection not for _his fucking self _but also for _the both of us, shithead _because sex, if Sherlock hadn't realized involved _two fucking people _and if Sherlock didn't like it he could sod off so John could get himself a different second half.

Sherlock was usually able to get the last word in during fights (especially with his brother) but with John, arguing was totally different. He could understand when John was genuinely upset, not like he could with other people. Sherlock didn't know why just yet, but he didn't care to figure out why. Who cares why? It's happening now and it's a concrete thing. Is asking "why?" going to change it. No.

So Sherlock extinguished the cigarette on a makeshift ashtray John had made just for him, climbed back into bed and kissed John lovingly first on his forehead, then cheeks, then lips, then said, "I won't complain externally about you nagging me anymore."

John, who decided this, was the closest he'd get to hearing an apology from Sherlock decided to kiss him back and say, "I love you" and nuzzle his face into Sherlock's chest so he could take a much-needed nap. Sherlock pushed his face into John's hair and breathed him in, and soon, John was snoring. When this happened, Sherlock slipped away from his arms, dressed himself, and pulled the covers up over John so he wouldn't be cold in his sleep. He went back into his drawer and took half of the condoms, then emptied his mint tin of mints so he could replace them with the condoms. Pocketing his new condom tin, he leaned over his boyfriend once again, "John?" he whispered.

"Nluh?" John responded.

"John, do you want me to stay?"

"Nnnn yynnnn ffnnnnn," John replied.

"Okay, I'll see you at school tomorrow," Sherlock whispered, then tip-toed out of the room and slinked down the stairs. John's Mum was nowhere to be found, but Harry was flicking through a magazine at the kitchen table and listening to a Jimi Hendrix record, she looked up at Sherlock, rolled her eyes and looked away.

Sherlock wasn't a mind reader, but he was fantastic at knowing what they were thinking anyway, and Harry had just said, _When are you just going to tell us?_

* * *

**Author's Note: **The teaching on The Care and Feeding of Your Condoms by John Watson was everything I've gathered from friends, I am not actually a Sex Ed Teacher, but, yes this is very good to do for your condoms. Also, I think John was trying to say, "No, you're fine," to Sherlock but that could have easily been incoherent, tired babbling. I do not own Sherlock and it's characters and I do not own SLC Punk (those that have seen that film will understand Molly's breakdown as a reference to the movie.) I also do not own Jimi Hendrix but I really like his song "Let Me Stand Next To Your Fire." Thank you for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

**TRIGGER WARNING: For joking about alcoholism.**

* * *

In one Molly Hooper's garage, where it was carpeted with ratty, dirty and germ-infested rugs, and one drum-kit sat in a corner; three teenagers sat around in various states of _What?_ They sat around a coffee table, and in front of the coffee table was a television that was turned off. Behind the coffee table there was a big, orange couch where Sherlock lounged. On one side of the couch Greg sat with his legs open. On the other side of the couch, Molly was on a similar seat with her legs crossed.

"Greg," Sherlock prompted, "I was going to ask you what you have planned for the weekend ahead but it's now been made very obvious to me that you have something planned out no involving me so I don't care."

"How did you even know that?"

"You keep looking at the fucking clock," Sherlock said, "Not as often as a person that is waiting for something to happen _today. _Just someone that wants to get the day over so they can start the next one say they can get _that _day over with."

"I'm going out Friday, to a pub," Greg smiled to himself. Greg went out to pubs a lot, but when Greg _planned ahead _to go to a pub – you know that the night was going to be eventful.

Molly groaned audibly, "Greg!" she screeched out, "I don't give a _shite _if you go to a pub, just don't call my house at two in the morning asking for a ride home."

"Hey," Greg said defensively, "I couldn't order a cab. I didn't have any money."

"Yeah? And what did you spend your money on, Greg?"

"Guiness," Greg said, "and it was worth every minute of vomiting."

_"And _inevitable alcoholism?" Sherlock interjected.

"Fuck yes," Greg moaned out in the pleasure of alcohol that only someone of his stature could moan out in pleasure of alcohol for.

"You have a problem," Molly scolded.

"No, I don't," Greg said objectively, "Not yet, at least."

"How many pints did you have last time?"

"Oh, you know, the regular, Molly," Greg shrugged.

"And how much is that?"

"You know…one or eight."

"Problem," Sherlock and Molly chided simultaneously.

"Fuck, fine, let's not talk about it. You know what? What are you miserable fucks doing with your lives this Friday?"

"Actually," Sherlock said very happily, only with the air of happiness that he had when he was about to say, _Look what I nicked. _Or _there's a new book on homicide at the library _or _that's my boyfriend, John Watson _but this time it was, "I'm taking John out to see a film on a _proper date."_

"Ooh, proper date," Molly said, as if the thought was as dirty as a public blow job, "What are you taking him too see then?"

"The new film, just coming out this Friday called _The Rocky Horror Picture Show."_

"I heard that got bad reviews," Greg said.

"Really? I've heard nothing but good things about it," Molly said.

"That's because you only watch telly, Molly," Sherlock said.

"Why are you taking him to see that one, then?" Greg asked.

"He likes horror films," Sherlock said.

"It's not a horror film," Greg shook his head.

"Fuck, yes it is," Sherlock argued, "it's called _The Rocky _Horror _Picture Show."_

"Yeah, but it's not a horror film, it's a spoof."

"A what?"

"A spoof. Something that makes fun of someth- "

"I know what a fucking spoof is, Lestrade," Sherlock replied, "I just…." he trailed off.

"You just what, Sherlock?" Greg said, his ears perked up, Molly looked sideways at him, interested.

"Nothing," Sherlock groaned.

"Did the Great Sherlock Holmes make a mistake?" Greg sing-songed, added in with a background chorus of _ooh-ing _by Molly.

"No! I was going to say I just _prefer _horror films to spoofs."

"No, you don't," Greg scoffed.

"I think he did," Molly smiled, "I think The Great and Knowledgeable Sherlock Holmes made a capital-m Mistake."

"I did not!"

"Sherlock, you don't even _like _films."

"I do!"

"No, you don't!" Greg said, and was pointing a hand at him, looking towards Molly, "The first time I met him, our first conversation was 'Did you see that new film that just came out?' And he said, 'No, I hate films.' He said that, he said he _hated _them. He went on, running his mouth, Hollywood ruining good novels and getting the chemistry wrong and on and on."

"You're like Holden Fucking Caulfield, Sherlock," Molly smiled brightly.

"Did Molly just make a reference to a classic coming-of-age novel?" Sherlock sing-songed. _There, _he thought, _let's see how _she _likes this treatment._

"Oh, fuck off, wanker, we were talking about you," Molly brushed him off.

On Thursday night, John, Harry, and the siblings' Mum and Dad sat around a dinner table in a garishly decorated kitchen, eating meat and potatoes and beans. They had just finished their prayers and were handing around the dishes, Mum was asking Harry if she had all of her essays done for school, and was about to move to see if John had studied for his Biology exam. Suddenly the phone rang on the hook in the kitchen.

"Mum, may I be excused so I can get the phone?" John said hopefully to his mother.

"Did you study for thirty minutes today?" she asked.

"Yes, Mum," he answered.

"Then go ahead, luv," she said nodding towards the kitchen.

"Thank you," John said and jumped up, galloped to the telephone, almost gazelle-like through the swinging door, and into the kitchen. He picked up the pea-green telephone, "Hullo? Watson's residence. John speaking."

"John," Sherlock's voice came distorted through the telephone.

"Hullo, Sherlock," John said happily, and reminded himself not to call him "love" or "sexy" because his family was _right there. _

"Guess where I'm taking you tomorrow night?" Sherlock prompted, barely keeping in his happiness.

"Oh no," John groaned, "You're not taking me to…" he lowered his voice to a breathy whisper before continuing, "You're not taking me to try and break into a morgue again, are you, Sherlock?"

"That wasn't my fault, we were _thatclose _to getting in," Sherlock argued.

"Well, if you're not taking me to the…_the morgue…_then where are you taking me?"

"The cinema!" Sherlock said gleefully.

"The cinema? Really?" John was pleasantly surprised.

"Yes, I'm going to pick you up at eight-thirty, so be ready by then," Sherlock said, sounding like he was about to hang up.

"Is this like…" John started and dropped to a whisper again, _"Sherlock, are you taking me on a real, proper date?" _

"Indeed, I am," Sherlock said very proudly of himself.

"This is so great, Sherlock! I'm…" John searched for the right word, "I'm impressed. Really, truly. Um, yeah, cheers, I can't wait."

"Oh, one more thing, John," Sherlock said.

"What's that?" John asked and had to choke back calling him "love".

"I have the tin," Sherlock said and promptly hung up.

John, smirking to himself, staring at the phone and the cord hanging off of it, tangling up the way phone cords do, even openly smiling at the phone. He did a quick little spin in his kitchen and nearly knocked off the magnets on the fridge. "He has the tin," he said joyfully to himself. "He's taking me on a date," he added. And then realized, "He's taking me on a date." And then, "We're going steady." And he wanted to run up the stairs to his room, shove his face in the pillow and scream, "HE'S TAKING ME ON A DATE!" and then cry because he was so happy. But he could do none of this, because, it was supper time.

* * *

**Author's Note: **

I don't know if it looks like it, but in this fic Molly and Greg are not in a relationship (but I ship it.) If you haven't read "The Catcher in the Rye" by JD Salinger (rest in peace) you probably did not understand Molly's joke/quip. Also, Molly's garage/basement is based loosely on the basement in That 70s Show. I do not own: Sherlock, The Catcher in the Rye, or That 70s Show (all amazing things though.)

John's totally chuffed. I'm really happy for you, John.


	3. Chapter 3

TRIGGER WARNING: Homophobic bullying at the cinema.

* * *

At eight-thirty sharp there was a loud knock at the door and John raced towards the front-door at lightning speed to find Sherlock standing there. He had newly shaven the part of his head that he liked to keep bald (looked rather dashing, John thought), he had on a black t-shirt that said THE DEAD KENNEDYS in Sherlock's handwriting, he'd made the shirt himself with white-out. He was wearing the really big jacket with the thousands of statements patched on, the goal of each one was to offend anyone reading them: ABORTIONS RULE; DIE CHRIST DIE; THE NAZIS WERE RIGHT; I WANT TO FUCK YOUR DAUGHTER. And, dear fucking Christ he was wearing _those _trousers, the ones that hugged his bum _perfectly. _And, in Sherlock's hand there was a bouquet of dying yellow roses. John immediately stepped out and closed the door behind them.

"Sherlock, what the fuck? Roses?" John said, taking the bouquet from him.

"I know they're not red," Sherlock began to explain, "but I stole them from a graveyard and they were the best I could find."

John smiled up at his tall boyfriend, "You nicked someone's grave for me?"

He looked towards John, smiling as he was shaking out a cigarette, "Only the best for my John. Now, come _on, _John. We have to be romantic _now."_

Sherlock grabbed John by the coat and ran with him, taking the bouquet and throwing it on someone's lawn. "I didn't think you'd actually want roses, they die anyway, plus they're good for nothing except looking at them."

"Sherlock, only you would go to the trouble of nicking me roses and then throw them away."

"I didn't throw them away," Sherlock said, "I gave them to some other lawn."

So, on their way, walking to the cinema, Sherlock was vying for the romantic hand in hand option but John placed his hand right on Sherlock's bum.

"Are we not going for subtlety tonight?" Sherlock asked.

"Not in those trousers."

"Very well."

So, Sherlock bought a pair of tickets for the film and they walked into the theatre looking for a place in the audience to sit.

_"Freak," _he heard someone down near the front cough in their throat. Sherlock immediately looked towards the culprit – Anderson. Anderson sitting next to Sally Donovan. Of course it was Donovan that started calling Sherlock that when he decided he quite liked part of his head shaved, and then, her boyfriend, Anderson…just caught on.

Sherlock was lunging forward, he knew what to do in that instant, a plan of effectively breaking Anderson's nose in such a way the he moved his head _towards _Donovan so the blood splattered all over the front of her shirt would make them _both _have to leave. Not only making the experience better for Sherlock's date but, also, for the entire theatre. He moved happily towards Anderson reaching the conclusion breaking his face would actually be a public service.

Then he felt John grab his arm and pull Sherlock towards him, John was smiling sweetly, amazingly calm at this, "Come on, Sherlock don't let them bother you. It's _our _night. Not theirs."

Sherlock moved away from his plan and towards the stairs where he could get up to the last remaining seat in the way back.

"Bloody poofters," Anderson said snidely towards his girlfriend, but of course, it was loud enough for Sherlock and John to hear.

"Don't listen to him," John whispered, squeezing Sherlock's hand.

"Oi, John! How's it feel to be dating the biggest _FREAK _in school?!" Anderson called out.

Suddenly, John turned a one eighty of where he was on a stair, "I'm going to fuck him up," he said decidedly, "I'm going to fuck him up."

Just as John was about to start the descent back down the stairs so he could _properly _beat the shit out of Anderson, an official-looking man came up, and, in front of the entire audience said, "Young man, there will be no hate in my theatre. You leave that couple alone, or you will be kicked out."

The entire audience gaped at the man, and then, there was clapping. They were applauding him; they were applauding the thought of Anderson and Donovan _getting kicked out. _

Finally sitting down in some seats, Sherlock said, "Well, this is turning out really rather nicely."

"Definitely," John agreed.

The woman in the seat in front of them turned around in her chair, and said, "I'm sorry you boys have to go through that. Don't worry, the revolution is upon us!" And she spun back without another word.

"They're not applauding Anderson and Donovan getting kicked out," John whispered to Sherlock, "they're applauding because they think it's cool that the manager thinks it's cool we're gay."

"It's cool we're gay?" Sherlock asked, "I said we should try exhibitionism. Didn't I say we should try exhibitionism?"

"Stop that," John said teasingly.

"I know you like it," Sherlock flirted back.

"Oh, come on, I want to _watch the film_, Sherlock."

The lights went down and the previews played, then suddenly the screen was totally blank and then coming out slowly was a….a pair of lips. Singing. A singing pair of lips? While the film went on and John watched as the lips disappeared and, oh, here's a church. A wedding! Oh, now singing, something about Janet? Dammit Janet? As John watched this happening, Sherlock watched John watch the film. John was very reactive with what he watched. He hummed along to the tunes, and he laughed at all the right parts. John, turned his head once to steal a look at Sherlock, and found him staring at himself.

"Sherlock, watch the film!" John scolded, so Sherlock did. Sherlock had one arm wrapped around his boyfriend in a comforting way (even though it wasn't a horror film, Lestrade was right, it _was _a spoof. A musical at that.) When Brad and Janet, husband and wife to be, walked into the castle after their car breaking down in the middle of the road, the maid appeared out of nowhere and slid down the banister of the stairs, screaming, "He's lucky! She's lucky! I'm lucky! WE'RE ALL LUCKY!" and screeching out her laughter. Then, the servant started singing another start of a song, "It's astounding….time is fleeting…. Madness….takes its toll…."

There was an entire musical number for The Time Warp, where at the end, all of the "partiers" in the house that were there for the convention completely collapsed onto the floor. Brad and Janet were the only ones standing amongst the mess, and Janet prompted her fiancé, "Say, something, Brad."

"Say!" Brad said loudly, the partiers lifted up to give him their full attention, "Do any of you guys know how to Madison?"

That was when it happened. Oh yes. The _defining _moment of the entire movie, Sherlock decided was when the man (was it really a man, after all?) descended down the lift and strutted, actually strutted in _high heels _down the carpet and to a throne. He had been singing his musical number the entire time, and by the time he got to his throne, he threw off the cape he'd been wearing to show what he was wearing under it.

A pearl bead necklace, a horrendously thick amount of makeup on that beautiful face topped with curly black hair, he was wearing a corset and plain black pants with stockings that went all the way up his thighs to get the suspenders to clasp on his garter. And, as it was pointed out again and again, he was wearing _heels. High heels. _

And fuck could he walk in them. The way he strutted, almost a gallop, almost running, perfect hips swinging, it would put a female runway model _to shame. _

"I'M JUST A SWEET TRANSVESTITE!" he sang in a thick voice.

Sherlock knew, sitting there under his big jacket with John snuggling contentedly up against him and smiling at the screen, he was getting hotter. Temperature hotter, and he shrugged away for John just for a second so he could take his jacket off and then invited John back into his arms. He knew his pulse was quickening. He knew his pupils were probably dilated to the point of making his eyes entirely black, but _really. _And, Sherlock found himself thinking the thought that every viewer of _Rocky Horror Picture Show _will ever think when they see the film:

_Why the fuck does Dr. Frank N. Furter have to be so hot?_

It wasn't just that the Dr. Frank N. Furter spent the movie having sex _with everyone. _Sherlock was able to make up a list of how many people he'd fucked: Columbia (the red-headed dancer), Eddie (the motorcyclist delivery boy), Brad, Janet, Rocky, and to top it all off, he ended the night with having an orgy with Columbia, Rocky, Brad, and Janet.

It wasn't _just _that Dr. Frank N. Furter was not only a wicked scientist that had discovered the secret to life itself. It wasn't even that he was also an axe-murderer.

It was his fucking clothes that got Sherlock.

The lingerie he wore with such confidence, the leather jacket with millions of pins on the back, the high heels. The. High. Heels.

As the film ended with the criminologist reciting a poem to the audience, "And crawling/ on the Earth's face/ some ants/ called the human race/ lost in time/ lost in space/ and the meaning." The credits played and the lights went up and everyone cheered. Not in the way they did at the beginning, before the film started. They cheered like it was the best film they'd ever seen in their lives.

"What did you think?" John asked, looking towards his gaping boyfriend.

"I love films," Sherlock replied.

* * *

**Author's Note: **

I really do not own Rocky Horror Picture Show at all. But I love it dearly, it's my favorite movie, and I've seen it eleven times. I apologize for those that were confused as to what Rocky Horror Picture Show is now, please just watch the movie, it's better to watch it than hear about it.

Also, this is the premiere night of Rocky Horror Picture Show so it has not yet gained the "cult classic" title support yet, so if you were expecting the writing of what would happen at an RHPS Live Showing on a Friday night at midnight, sorry, not yet, loves.

Although RHPS was a play before it was made into a movie, so a select /few/ knew the lyrics and whatnot.


	4. Chapter 4

"You fancy him," John said, walking hand in hand back to John's house.

"What?" Sherlock said.

"You. Fancy. Dr. Frank N. Furter," John pronounced slowly.

"Don't be daft, John," Sherlock was quick to defend myself, "Of course I don't _fancy _Dr. Frank N. Furter. He's a fictional character; it would be _stupid_ to fancy a fictional character."

"Are you bloody kidding me?" John scoffed, "I could _hear you _getting hard."

Sherlock blushed furiously and took one swift look down towards his crotch, when John wasn't looking, to see if he still had it.

"You just looked at your crotch, didn't you?"

"No, of course not."

"Oh, come _off it,_ Sherlock!" John said, and Sherlock was more than relieved to see that John wasn't angry but instead looked amused. He was smiling and close to letting out a giggle.

"Come on, you know what? Okay, sit down," he said, and pointed to another park bench, not unlike the one that the two usually went to snog and talk after school.

"Are you breaking up with me?" Sherlock asked as soon as their bums hit the bench.

"What? No, of course I'm not breaking up with you. I love you, Sherlock, why would I break up with you?"

"Because you think I fancy a fictional character," Sherlock said.

"I wouldn't break up with you because of that."

"You wouldn't?"

"Of course not. Look, what I wanted to tell you is…we're sexually active, right?"

"Do you have to say it _like that?"_ Sherlock whined.

"How else do you want me to say it, Sherlock?"

"Say, 'Sherlock…we bugger each other a lot, right?' That's perfectly fine."

"Fine. Sherlock, we bugger each other a lot. I think we should just feel comfortable about talking about what we _want."_

Sherlock made a non-committal noise and John was quick to think, "Think of this like a science experiment, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked his boyfriend in the eyes, he held himself now like he would in his chemistry class. "How do you mean, John?"

"Okay. So… you make a hypothesis, and I make a hypothesis, and we proceed with the experiment, and gather our findings."

"Hypothesis as to how I reason you might feel and react to something, or hypothesis as to how I reason_ I_ might feel and react to something?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, the second one," John said, nodding.

"I'll start it tonight," Sherlock said, lifting from the bench, but his boyfriend caught his arm and pulled him back down.

"That's not how it works," John said, as Sherlock let himself go back down, "We work it out _together."_

Sherlock looked into his boyfriend's eyes when he said this. It wasn't a sexy thing, talking about sex like this. It was romantic. It was more romantic than any date or vacation. This was about being closer than anyone else had been close to Sherlock. This was about his boyfriend taking the time to make sure it wasn't just a rough and quick shag. It was closeness. The most intimate type of closeness.

"Okay," Sherlock said simply. And he stopped there.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay," John concludes, "Do you want to do it somewhere else than here?"

Sherlock, now regretting his jokes about experimenting with exhibitionism nodded, and was grateful when he didn't tease him.

They walked silently down the bustling street of London until they were at John's door to his house. "Would you like to come in?" John asked, "I must warn you, everyone's still here though. We're not alone."

"I'd like to come in, if you want to invite me in," Sherlock said, and John was just about to lead them in just as they were and just before he put his key in the lock, something crashed into him. Their hands were still locked together. He looked at Sherlock wordlessly.

"Oh," Sherlock said, "You still haven't…."

"Told them," John finished.

"Right," Sherlock said, shaking his head and letting his hand drop from John's. In a passing second, John wanted to pick Sherlock's hand right back up and squeeze it tight and run into the room, screaming, "OKAY! I ADMIT IT! I ADMIT IT! WE'RE TOGETHER! I'M A PART OF A TOGETHER WITH A MAN!" And then laugh at the looks on their faces and leave, pulling Sherlock out the door and crying into his chest.

"What are you waiting for, John?" Sherlock asked, he hadn't asked it in a mean way, like when John had asked about the cigarettes, it was a real question.

"I don't know," John said, and he looked across the lawn to the beautiful roses that Sherlock had gotten him, nicked him from the grave, "in the end. Even after all the waiting. It will still be bad. And I'll still be scared."

There was a long pause, and all the two boys heard was the sounds of the neighborhood, and their breathing, and the sounds inside the house. And John heard the footsteps inside the house getting closer to the door, until it just flung open. John's Mum stood there looking at the two boys. Sherlock now with a cigarette in his mouth.

"Young man you take that thing away from your teeth! Do you have any idea what it will do to you?!" she started screeching at Sherlock. And Sherlock, who hadn't yet lit it, put it back in the cartridge it came in and muttered an apology he didn't really mean. An apology he was just saying because that was _John's _Mum.

"Mum, this is Sherlock," John said, nodding towards Sherlock in a manly way, as if they hadn't minute ago been holding hands, kissing, intimately chatting about having sex with each other.

"Hullo, Sherlock," she said, holding her hand out and stepping out of the house to introduce herself properly, "Ooh! Young lad, you've got…" she said, not knowing how to say that he was bald about an inch above his ear.

"Uh, yes, ma'am," Sherlock said, not used to calling someone "ma'am". "I did it myself," he says.

"Oh…" Mum said confusedly, "Now, come inside, the both of you, you'll catch cold if you don't."

As John walked in through the door, Sherlock looked towards John and said, "Actually I have something to do tonight at home. But. I'll see you Monday."

"Monday?" John asked dumbly, as if the school did not follow a distinct schedule.

"Yes, John, Monday," Sherlock confirmed, "You have practice then, right?"

"Yeah," John said, Mum was in the house, away by now.

"Well, I'll meet you on the rugby pitch after?"

"Sure, um, Sherlock, what do you have to do?"

Sherlock, glancing inside the house just once, then taking the cigarette out of the cartridge, balancing it between his lips and lighting up said, "I need to get to work on my hypothesis. Good night, love."

Sherlock planted a sweet and noiseless kiss on the lips then turned and vanished from the line of sight – walking towards his own home.

John turned inside the house and looked around, no one was there in _that _sign of light. So, he walked into his kitchen, Mum was putting away the leftovers in the icebox. "Look!" she said proudly, "New Tupperware!"

"That's nice, Mum," John said.

"Our last ones were staining," she explained, "so I ordered new ones and threw the old ones out today!"

"Exciting," he humoured her, and then paused and watched his Mum bustling around in the kitchen, humming a song and tidying things up.

She looked towards him finally, "Is there anything you want to tell me, Johnny?"

John was taken aback, how could she know that? Mind-reading? As he was watching her, he was simultaneously trying to find his nerve and the right thing to say.

"How come you say that?" he asked instead.

"You've just been standing there, watching me," she shrugged, "Usually you either help or ignore me."

"I'm sorry, Mum, I don't mean to ignore you," he said.

"So, what's going on?" she said, wiping her hands on a hand towel.

He swallowed hard, "Nothing," he decided.

John's mother was a smart woman, and decided, whatever her son had to tell her could wait until he was ready to say it, "Okay, luv," she said, "and oh! You have rugby practice tomorrow so don't you go and forget your cleats and mouth-guard again, young man!"

"I won't!" he promised, and hurried out, "I'll gather everything now! Good night!"

"I love you, dear!" she called up the stairs.

"Love you, too!" he called back, and heard his door close.

"And always will," she said quietly to herself, threw the hand-towel over her shoulder, and went back to the kitchen.

* * *

**Author's Note: **

That bit with the "Okay?" "Okay." between Sherlock and John on the bench was an accident I did not MEAN to reference The Fault in Our Stars (novel by John Green) but it accidentally happened because A) Okay is an all-encompassing and fantastically intimate word. And B)John Green has burrowed so deeply into my psyche it gets into my writing. And C) It's FanfFiction so I reference WHAT I WANT.

Also, I wrote John's Mum to be very caring and motherly because that's how I feel John was raised. I think she's a sweetheart I just want to hug her. [Perfect Parent Award]


	5. Chapter 5

This chapter is on the longer side, has lots of sexual themes (no smut quite yet) and a lesson in the chemical Oxytocin.

* * *

"Young man!" Sherlock heard Mother's voice call from the hallway, "Are you smoking in your room _again?" _

"No!" he yelled back through the door, stamped out the cigarette next to the other spent fags on the ash tray, got down on his knees to root through his record collection, and put on a 45 of the Beatles. Yellow Submarine.

Sherlock stripped himself of all of his clothes, buried himself under the covers and breathed in as heavily as he could, "We all live in a Yellow Submarine….Yellow Submarine…Yellow Submarine…We all live in a Yellow Submarine…" Sherlock usually wasn't one for pop music, but he liked that particular song. It was calming, that and Paperback Writer.

There was suddenly a knock on his door right after Sherlock got up from the bed to take the needle off the record. "I put the fag out!" he shouted.

"It's me," Mycroft said.

Sherlock inhaled sharply then breathed out an angry huff, "What," he started, "do you want?"

"Let me in, brother," Mycroft replied, "just let me talk to you."

"Why should I?" Sherlock countered.

"Don't you love your brother?"

_"No."_

"Well, let me in because I still need to talk to you anyhow."

Sherlock demanded for his brother to wait as he put on a pair of boxers and a dirty t-shirt he found in the hamper. "What?" he sneered as he flung open the door.

"Thank you for being decent," Mycroft said, sounding none too thankful, and he pushed in, and as soon as he was standing the mess that was dirty clothes and battered copies of school books he immediately looked disgusted.

"I know it's a mess but you don't have to take it so personally," Sherlock said, shutting the door.

"It's not that," Mycroft shook his head, "Is that nicotine I smell?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, "What do you want."

"God, that's," Mycroft said, slipped his hand into his waistcoat pocket, "that's strong," he finished, producing a handkerchief and covering his face with it.

"_What _do you want, Mycroft?"

"Mother sent me up here to tell you she doesn't want you to smoke in her house anymore," Mycroft said through the handkerchief, "and I'm going to have to agree with her."

Sherlock looked his brother up and down, he was wearing a suit, as per usual. Black trousers, bleached white button-down, gray waistcoat with tan buttons, black outer-jacket. He was missing a monocle, a cane, and a top-hat, Sherlock smiled fleetingly, he could be Monopoly man.

"How long are you staying?" Sherlock asked, even though he knew the answer.

"Just for the night," Mycroft said, "Father's taking me out to dinner in 'a few minutes'."

"Uncharacteristically nice," Sherlock observed, "He wants to make a business proposal."

"I also guessed as such," Mycroft answered, "What in God's name did you do to your head?"

"I shaved it," Sherlock said without further explanation, even though he knew that Mycroft was more interested in _why _he did such a thing, "Mother said she wants me to quit then?"

"That's not what I heard," Mycroft said, moving towards the door to leave the foul-smelling place, "just wants you to stop smoking _in here."_

Soon, Mycroft turned to step into what was once his room before he moved out and started living in the dormitories at Uni. Sherlock closed the door angrily, and moved to put on another record. He thought about John again laying back down on his bed.

John had cared about him; he didn't care about the smell of it, but cared about what would happen to him if he continued to smoke. He didn't allude to so but Sherlock knew that John really did care about him. More than Mother and Father cared, or even Mycroft cared. John cared about Sherlock the most, more than anyone else that Sherlock knew.

Sherlock thought about John's smile and his big eyes, and his little idiosyncrasies. He thought about the faces he made when Sherlock was telling him an impressive tale about a gig played at a bar, the theft of a street sign, the telling-off of a Headmaster. He thought about the noises John made when he was kissing him or when he was aroused, he thought about the first time they'd had sex.

John had been shaking visibly out of nervousness; he hadn't gone so far with a man before Sherlock. He'd had boyfriends, sure, but none too serious, and before he and Sherlock had started dating – he hadn't gone very far. Sherlock held him tightly the whole way through, kissing and touching him gently and slowly, as requested from the shorter man.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock had asked with his hand on John's cheek and moved into John's tangled hair.

"Yes," John breathed, his eyebrows knitting together and pointing upwards. His shaking hands trying to touch Sherlock steadily.

"You're experiences palpitations," Sherlock said medically, "Do you need to stop?"

John smiled, and laughed happily, dropping the Trying To Be Sexy Act, "No, Sherlock, I'm just nervous…and excited and …anxious."

"You don't need to be, contrary to popular belief, this is very natural," Sherlock consoled, and took John's hand to kiss the backs of his palms.

"I'm not nervous because of that, Sherlock," John said shaking his head. They were lying on John's bed, on their sides facing each other. Sherlock was trying to remember…that's right, Harry was out for the night with a friend, and John's Dad and Mum were sleeping downstairs soundly.

"Then why are you nervous?" Sherlock asked.

"Because, Sherlock….I…a lot of reasons. This is different. It's really intimate, and I've never been completely naked like this in front of a person before. And there's touching. And it's intimate, really. And it's my first time and it's special and I'm a virgin. And I very vainly want to be good at it."

Sherlock held John's face in both of his hands and straddled his body, putting his knees on either side of him and sitting up over John, they let their foreheads touch intimately, "You're right, John, you're absolutely right," they kissed sweetly and then started.

Their hands groped to gain access to new places and whispers of "Is this okay?" and "Yes" were exchanged. And with John's legs wrapped tightly around Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock very steadily rocking against John at a slow pace John had started panting quietly and heavily, then there was the sighs, and then the whimpers, and then he covered his mouth with both hands, trying to muffle his moans.

John wanted to kiss Sherlock eagerly and thoroughly afterwards but sleep soon enraptured him and he lied there being spooned. When he was snoring, Sherlock slipped away, put on his clothes, got rid of the condom and tucked the lube and the rest of the condoms in his pants drawer. Sherlock leaned over and shook John awake, "John, I have to go," he said.

John moaned in disapproval, "Stay."

"I can't," Sherlock said, and he looked angry, frustrated, and disgruntled because he also wanted to stay and spoon his lover.

"Call me," John moaned, and Sherlock kissed his forehead and left the room, sneaking out the front door and lighting a cigarette, taking the long way home. He really couldn't stay, how would that look? Staying overnight to wake up and just, what, have breakfast with the family? They couldn't risk anyone going in the room to find them naked under the covers together, arms locked around each other or spooning. There was no other way.

Sherlock cried frustratedly in his bed that now felt so empty without John, he took his pillow and hugged it tightly to his chest and curled up in faetal position. He wanted to call John, but someone else might answer. And you couldn't take a telephone into bed with you and fall asleep on the line.

Oxytocin. That was what Sherlock realized what it was, but only later afterwards. Oxytocin, also known as The Cuddle Chemical. It's released in the brain in large amounts directly following an orgasm from genital tract stimulation.

To put it in other words, it makes you feel good and close to your partner after sex. Leaving John was the denying of Oxytocin, and it made a confusion in his brain that left him crying alone, biting his fingers, and wishing he could be back with John.

Sherlock stood, watching as the boys on the pitch finished their practice. John talked idly with some other players, and then moved to get his sports bag and push his mouth-guard into the side-pockets. As John looked up to survey the field, he spotted a darkly dressed and pale figure watching him with smoke coming up from his right hand and mouth. John smiled to himself and then walked in a slow (aching?) manner towards him until he was way off the pitch.

"Were you watching me?" John asked, and took Sherlock's hand; he pinched the fag between his fingers, flicked it to the ground and attempted to crush it with his cleat. The spikes weren't getting the job done too well though, so Sherlock crushed it with his own boot.

"Not really, actually," Sherlock said truthfully, "I just came here from the library."

"Studying?"

"Yes."

John nodded and felt the need to give his boyfriend a _hello _kiss but pulled himself away from the want, looked back towards the field where his team-mates were still milling about.

"Who have you told?" Sherlock asked.

"Stamford," John said, shrugging, "and another friend. Just two people I knew could handle us…being…"

"A whole theatre seemed to be okay with us," Sherlock supplied.

"Yes," John nodded, "Rocky Horror Picture Show fans, which, makes an amazing amount of sense now that I have seen Rocky Horror Picture Show."

"It was rather titillating…" Sherlock allowed.

" 'Titillating'," John repeats his boyfriend's word, " 'Titillating' he says, like he wasn't practically panting from arousal."

"Do not tease me, John," Sherlock warned, but was looking at John's cleats when he said it.

"All right, I won't tease you anymore just because you fancy Dr. Frank N. – "

"I do not _fancy _him," Sherlock said, cutting his boyfriend short.

John decided it best to move the topic of conversation before Sherlock had a conniption in public.

"Did you have an okay weekend, then?" John asked.

"Yes, Mycroft came over, which was annoying, but," Sherlock pushed a hand into his front pocket, producing a piece of folded up lined paper, "I was working on this."

"What is it?" John asked.

"My hypothesis," Sherlock answered, then he took John's hand, put the paper on his palm and folded his fingers, "It's yours now."

"I thought we were going to work on these together, Sherlock," John said disapprovingly.

"We still can," Sherlock said, "Mine's just written out first. Organized," Sherlock wasn't fond of organization unless it was in the description of his Mind Palace, but he liked the excuse, "You can write yours out too. Help you organize everything."

"All right," John said, shrugging. He couldn't argue with this line of thinking, he put the paper in his pocket, "I'll read it tonight, then."

Sherlock looked fondly at the shorter man, then at the pitch, then the campus surrounding him, and then back down at John, "I would kiss you now."

John's eyebrows knitted together, "I want that," he said, "but we shouldn't."

"Right," Sherlock said, and then childishly, "Can't we anyway?"

John giggled, looked at the pitch behind him, then said, "Just this once really quick."

He leaned up and kissed Sherlock's lips and in the second they were touching, in a second they were gone again.

"How come you don't want to kiss me here but you'll kiss me at the Fountain? And you were right groping me Friday night at the cinema!" Sherlock answered.

"No one's ever at The Fountain, Sherlock," John said, "That's okay, because no one's ever there. Here, it's like we're surrounded by people we see every day. We don't know how they feel about this."

"And the cinema?" Sherlock growled.

"Yeah, but you were wearing _those _trousers."

"Which trousers?"

"Your _Sex Trousers."_

"Sex Trousers?" Sherlock asked, "I don't own Sex Trousers."

"Yes, you do," John said, "The ones you were wearing on our date. They make your arse look _fantastic."_

"Do they?" Sherlock looked proud, his feathers were fluffing up from the compliment.

"Besides, no one can see my hand under your coat," John continued.

"I've got a nice bum," Sherlock smiled happily.

"Yes, you do," John said with Military Seriousness, "And don't you forget it. That's an order."

Sherlock smiled, and was beginning to bend down for another kiss when he remembered _Just that once._

"I'm sorry," John apologized, "I wish we could too."

"Yeah," Sherlock said regretfully.

"How's your band?" John said, and they filled their time with small talk as Sherlock and him walked off of campus and Sherlock lit another cigarette. At the door to John's home, John asked, "Would you like to come in?"

"No, I think I'll let you get started on your hypothesis."

"Naughty boy," John said under his breath, and then pulled Sherlock down for an enthusiastic, mind-bending kiss.

Sherlock walked away with billions of dirty thoughts in his head as John walked into his home. His Mum was taking a much-needed break sitting in the couch on the living room and flipping through a cookbook.

"Hi, Mum," John said.

"Hullo, luv," Mum answered, "How was rugby today?"

"Very good," John said, "I'll be up in my room. Homework."

"Dinner at six, young man!" she called.

John let go of his book bag and sports bad, letting them thump to the floor, then took off his cleats and let his aching feet have a rest as he laid back on his bed, and opened the paper.

Hypothesis Statement: What Subject Becomes Aroused By During Intercourse, A Study in Personal Kinks written by Sherlock Holmes

Subject Name: Sherlock Holmes

Sexual Orientation: Homosexual

Age: 17 ¾

Sexual History: Standard Kissing (also referred to as "snogging"), Masturbation of a Partner (hand job), Oral Pleasing of a Partner (blow job), Anal Sex (penetrating and being penetrated).

Number of Sexual Partners Subject Has Had: Five (Let it note that subject has not been penetrated during anal sex before engaging in intercourse with John H. Watson. Subject, however, has penetrated himself during masturbation.)

Enjoyments Of Sex Subject Has Confirmed From Previous Experiences: Noises from a partner, sexual banter ("dirty talk"), roughness.

Enjoyments of Sex Subject Is Looking To Experiment On With Partner, The Aforementioned John H. Watson: transfetishism (name of kinks for those that enjoy their partners to cross-dress for sexual reasons, discovered from the watching of Rocky Horror Picture Show, specifically but not excluding to anything else – the wearing of high heels on a man). And asphyxophilia (name for those that enjoy being choked by a partner, severing air supply during sex. Let it be noted that subject has not had this done to him before but has choked himself during masturbation.)

Known Dislikes Subject Has Confirmed: being bossed around or "dominated", anything to do with bodily fluids that are not semen, females, ?

Kinks/ Fetishes/ Other Experiments That Subject Does NOT Want To Engage In With Partners: Any of the above (Let it be known that subject will make an exception for John H. Watson and only if he asks really nicely.)

Hypothesis Statement: Subject Holmes will become severely turned on in the case that Subject Watson will allow to indulge him in his two Experimental Kinks. Subject Watson, while Subject Holmes is not sure how he will react to these Experimental Kinks, will most likely pass out after any sex, snuggling up to Subject Holmes. Subject Holmes will proceed to smoke a cigarette.

Notes: John, please don't break up with me because of my hideous kinks. If anything, you should break up with me because I'm such a whore. –SH

John laughed out loud at the note that Sherlock had written down at the end. John had gotten aroused and felt his cock twitch at the mentions of what Sherlock had done during masturbation – fingering himself and choking himself. Although it didn't say anywhere that he'd used his fingers, it only said "penetrated".

John was surprised to see that Sherlock had mentioned "sexual banter" as an "Enjoyment of Sex". They'd never done any dirty talk before, any and all talk about or during sex was either medical surrounding the usage of condoms and lubrication, or during sex when Sherlock constantly asked him "Are you okay? Does this hurt? Do you need me to stop?"

Which John would reply, "Yes. No," and, "God, no. Don't stop. Never stop."

He smiled at Sherlock's accurate statement in the Hypothesis Statement: "Subject Watson will most likely pass out after any sex, cuddling up to Subject Holmes."

John folded the note and put it on his bedside table, he calmly walked down the stairs to where his Mum was sitting on the couch, "Um…Mum?" he started.

"Yes, dear?"

"Do you know where Harry is?"

"She's out in class, Johnny. Why?"

"No reason," John said, and slinked back up the stairs and snuck into Harry's room.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I do not own The Beatles' music.

I know that in BBC Sherlock canonical Mycroft is a cigarette smoker (seen as Mycroft is standing in front of Speedy's Cafe smoking a cigarette in the rain, waiting for John). But my headcanon is that he didn't start smoking until his job as The Government became stressful and he looked into release in cigarette smoking as a coping mechanism.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was sitting with his legs crossed on the orange couch in Molly's basement, looking over her shoulder, reading the fashion magazine she was reading.

"Do you enjoy being told how you should look and what kind of sex you should be having, Molly?" he asked. In turn, she set the magazine down on her lap and gave him a filthy look, and then she threw the magazine hard against the wall.

"Would you enjoy I break your goddamned face?" she asked.

"It was just a question."  
"Well don't ask questions like that with me, Sherlock, you know better," she said strongly.

In that moment, they heard the upstairs door slam, quick steps down the stairs and Greg showed up in a new Rolling Stones shirt.

"Hey, nice shirt, Lestrade," Molly praised, she was a Stones fan.

"Thanks, luv," she said, and leaned over to give her a kiss on the cheek and happily plunked down on a chair.

"Someone's happy," Molly smiled.

Sherlock made one look at Greg, up and down, and then he announced, "Yeah, he got laid."

"I'm in love," Greg said.

"With whom?" Molly asked.

"Hardly in love," Sherlock said, "You got laid. Friday night, when you said you were going to the pub."

"All very true, but this is love, Sher, I can feel it," Greg said.

"Don't call me 'Sher'," Sherlock said, lip curling up, "I'm hardly an American Astrology Institute."

"Okay, really. Who is it Greg?" Molly asked.

"A boy," Greg said, alluding to nothing else.

Molly was taken aback, but Sherlock sat there boredly. "A bloke, mate?" Molly asked.

"Before you ask," Sherlock said, drawing circles in the arm of the couch, "he's not gay, he's just a slut."

"Also true," Greg granted, "He gave me his telephone number after I buggered him."

"Well, how old was he?" Molly asked.

"I don't know, late twenties, I suppose," Greg said, "said he worked for the government. I was so happy! I fucked the government, Molly, I _fucked _the government!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard he could nearly see his brain.

"Well, are you going to see him again?" Molly gossiped.

"Oh, fuck yes," Greg nodded surely, "I told him I played guitar in a band. That's sexy, isn't it?"

"Sure is," Molly said, grinning, "Well, now this just isn't fair. Sherlock has a boyfriend and now you do too, Greg. I'm going to have to go and get myself a bum to bugger too."

"Girls can't bugger boys," Greg laughed.

"Well, why the fuck not?" Molly asked, which, incidentally was her approach to most things.

"You haven't the equipment, Molly," Greg tried to argue.

"I could get some," Molly defied.

Sherlock instead sat his elbow on the arm of his and sat his chin on his fist. He was thinking about John. Sherlock wasn't alone, he knew that, he could hear Molly and Greg chatting idly near him, he comprehended that Molly got up to turn on the telly so they could surf the channels and continue chatting about nothing. He felt alone, though. Like when he was in Primary School and everyone thought he was a loser, so Sherlock blocked them out and read all the non-fiction books about bees and sharks in the library by himself.

Except he wasn't reading now, he was staring at the patterns of the beige wallpaper and thinking about his lover. He knew John to be open and patient when it came to Sherlock, and even if John wouldn't accept to doing the things that Sherlock really wanted him to do, he would still love him. Sherlock knew this to be a fact, but he couldn't help but fantasize about John getting angry.

Maybe John would have disgustedly put the piece of paper down on his wooden desk work-station, then decide to crumple it up and put it in the rubbish bin. Maybe he'd sit around afterwards, blanking when he watched telly and contemplating how to tell Sherlock how disgusting he was.

He thought about John's lip curling when he looked at Sherlock the next time they saw each other. He thought about himself leaning down with his hands in his pockets and attempting to take John's lips with his own. Then John would flinch backwards, even though no one was around. Then John would say, "I'm sorry, Sherlock," really politely, but like he had better things to be doing, "but I don't think I can be with you anymore. It's too much hiding this, and, frankly, I think you're kind of off your rocker. Choking you? Really? And did you actually _think _that I'd put on heels and a dress? For you? You need help. Psychiatric help."

Then he'd walk away holding his keys in his pockets, and not even turning to look if Sherlock was okay. Not even pausing to see what he had to say about that. And Sherlock would put a cigarette in between his lips and light it. Then he'd stare at the Fountain he'd joked with John about trying exhibitionism with. And instead of flicking the fag to the cement ground and extinguishing it with the sole of his boot, he would force it onto his skin to feel the pain.

Why did Sherlock have to torture himself all the time?

"Sherlock," he heard Molly say, her hand was waving in front of his face, "You all right, mate?"

"Yeah, I'm well," Sherlock said, and continued to block them out.

John stood in the kitchen, it was during the time after he got home from school and before Mum started fixing supper. Mum was in the basement then, doing the laundry, so he only had a bit of time to talk to Sherlock.

The phone rang and rang, then a woman's voice picked up, "Holmes Residence."

"Hullo, ma'am. May I speak to Sherlock? This is John Watson."

"Hold on, John. Let me get him from his room," she said, and then John heard footsteps some muffled yelling, more footsteps and then Sherlock picking up, "Who is this?" he asked angrily.

"It's me, Sherlock," John said, worriedly, "Are you all right, then?"

John heard Sherlock sigh in relief, "I'm all right, I just wasn't expecting you to call….Are-are you all right, though?"

"Yes, of course, I'm all right, love," John said, "Anyway, I've finished writing up my Hypothesis for you, when can we meet so I can give it to you?"

"Oh! So, you're good, then?"

"Of course I'm fine, Sherlock, why are you so worried?" John said.

"I'm not worried!" Sherlock said defensively, "You just….rugby is a very violent sport and I don't want you to get hurt."  
"That's sweet of you," John said, "but you should know that it's the _other players _you should be worried about, I can really put up a fight."

Sherlock smiled lovingly into the phone, "All right, meet me at the Fountain in a half," the hung up.

John took a second to put on shoes, his coat, get his keys, and push the folded paper into his pocket. "I'm going out, Mum!" he called.

"OI YOU'D BETTER BE HOME FOR DINNER OR THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES, YOUNG MAN!" she screeched in her angry voice.

John flinched as he opened the front door, "Yes, ma'am."

Sherlock sat back on his bed hours later, there had been lots of kissing between John and Sherlock at The Fountain. And John kept saying, "I have to go, I have to go" and Sherlock kept replying, "Okay, one more kiss." Then he said, "John, I think I've figured a way out to not only get into the morgue at St. Bart's but also have unlimited access to the cadavers," very proudly. And John said, "Okay, I'm really going now."

Then he suavely slipped the paper into Sherlock's back pocket of his trousers, and said, "Call me when we can start the Experiments," then left Sherlock in a muffled state of mind. Sherlock practically ran home so he could violently un-fold and read the paper.

It looked as if John had followed the same formatting as Sherlock had.

Hypothesis Statement: What Subject Becomes Aroused By During Sexual Intercourse, A Study In John Watson's Sexual Behaviour written by John Watson

Subject Name: John Hamish Watson

Sexual Orientation: Homosexual (Let it be stated that subject is curious in engaging in sexual interactions with the females.)

Age: 17

Sexual History: Standard Kissing (snogging), Oral Sex (giving and receiving a blow job), Anal Sex (penetrating and being penetrated). Also masturbation.

Number of Sexual Partners: One. (Let the record state that Subject John and his suitors had only gone as far as "standard kissing" and some groping, clothes on.)

Enjoyments of Sex Subject Has Confirmed from Previous Experiences: Subject John enjoys being penetrated in the place towards the front of him. Subject John cannot explain it further because he received a D in anatomy. Subject John has enjoyed slow sex in the past and continues to enjoy it.

Enjoyments of Sex Subject John is Looking to Experiment on with Partner, Subject Sherlock:

Transfetishism as stated in Subject Sherlock's Hypothesis. Asphyxophilia, the act of choking Subject Sherlock during intercourse (BUT ONLY IF SUBJECTS DECIDE ON SAFEWORD-LIKE GESTURES BEFOREHAND, NO EXCEPTIONS WILL BE MADE.) Subject John is also curious to the sex act of orally pleasing another's anus (rim job).

Known Dislikes Subject Has Confirmed From Previous Experiments: Subject Sherlock has done nothing that Subject John did not like.

Kinks/Fetishes/ And Other Experiments Subject DOES NOT Want To Experiment With: Subject John is unsure what a kink or fetish is and how they differ. But Subject John totally agrees with Subject Sherlock that he doesn't want any other fluids to be brought in other than semen because ew.

Hypothesis Statement: Subject John will indulge Sherlock in his two (fetishes?) as stated in Subject Sherlock's Hypothesis and things will either go horribly wrong or really good. Then John will fall asleep and Subject Sherlock will smoke (as stated in Subject Sherlock's Hypothesis Statement).

Further Notes From Subject John Watson: Sherlock, you don't need to think you're hideous or a whore. No matter what happens, I'm still going to love you, I promise. And I like that we're doing this, it's rather clever, I think. I can't wait to start the "experiments" with you, call me, luv! -JW

* * *

**Author's Note: **John isn't very good at the formal writing, but it serves as good humor.  
Do you ever torture yourself by thinking of terrible things like Sherlock does? I know I do. All the time**.**


	7. Chapter 7

Hot Patootie, Bless My Soul – Chapter Seven

Sherlock was sitting in his room, reading and re-reading, and re-re-reading John's Hypothesis. He had seen Mycroft looking in the refrigerator, humming quietly to himself.

"Father call you back again?" Sherlock asked, taking off his jacket, and hanging it on the back of a chair.

Mycroft surprisedly looked up from out behind the fridge door with a biscuit in his mouth and a beer in his hand, he gave Sherlock a menacing look and slowly took the biscuit out of his mouth, "Christ, Sherlock, you nearly killed me startling me," Mycroft said, shutting the door.

"Shame I didn't," Sherlock said, putting one hand on his slim hip, "You didn't answer my question. Father called you back again for another meeting? I don't know why you would be here for any other reason."

Mycroft sighed, "Yes, we're still working on some things," Mycroft said, and bit into his cookie while simultaneously trying to open his beer.

"'Working on some things'," Sherlock repeated, "Come, _on, _Mycroft, you're talking to me like I'm a child."

"Because you _are _a child, Sherlock," Mycroft said, "at least you act like one. And dress like one too, what's that say?"

"It's just my Bollocks shirt," Sherlock said, looking at the shirt he'd made, all of his band shirts were hand-made. Either black shirts painted with White-Out or white shirts done up in black pen. All simply stating the names of his favourite bands.

"And you go around wearing that?" Mycroft said, "There are _children _outside, Sherlock."

"I thought _I _was a child!"

"You are!" Mycroft shouted, as if that would stop the argument.

"How come father needs you to keep coming back?" Sherlock said.

"We just need to keep working on things. It's just numbers and finances, you know. We're trying to figure how much will go to your Uni expenses."

"Well, you could've done that in just two nights, why didn't you stay over for Friday night, then?"

"I was out Friday night," Mycroft said angrily and slammed some cupboard doors. Sherlock stepped backwards just one step back by instinct. Then he decided to cut the bullshit and leave Mycroft to his regrets of whatever he'd been doing Friday night. He was halfway up the stairs when he was thinking about his Friday night, and the good music, and Greg's t-shirt with the Rolling Stones logo on it, and smiling Greg saying he was out at a pub Friday night. Greg saying he had gotten laid. That he'd fucked the government. Mycroft worked for the government. Lestrade said he'd had sex with a government worker.

Sherlock slammed down the stairs so fast a cheetah would be jealous, he tackled Mycroft to the tile floor of the kitchen and had him in a head-lock.

"STOP FUCKING MY FRIENDS!" he growled.

"I don't understand what you're talking about!" Mycroft cried out in pain and tried to get his hands around Sherlock's arms, attempting to pry them away.

"You went out to a pub Friday night because you were stressed out about finances and Greg was there and you fucked him! You fucked Greg Lestrade!"

"What? Sherlock! Get off me! I have no idea what you're talking about!"

Sherlock was trying to swing his legs around Mycroft's legs so he could not actually kick or get away from him.

"You little prick! You fucked Greg, didn't you?! Didn't you?!" Sherlock screamed.

"Fine, yes, I did, Sherlock!" Mycroft finally screamed, still trying to claw at the countertops for purchase, trying to leave his brother's tight grip, "Are you happy now?"

"Are you planning to continue to fuck him?" Sherlock asked through clenched, angry teeth.

"No, it was just a one-time thing, I'm not going to do it anymore!" Mycroft said, trying to keep his grip with his one hand on the counter and his other hand on Sherlock's arm. He was choking and trying to get air back into his body, and oxygen back to his brain.

As Mycroft scrambled around, Sherlock ran this statement over in his brain before he threw Mycroft to the floor and stuck both of his knees into his back, putting his whole weight into his back, "No! God! No! He's been going around ever since saying he's in love with you! Quit breaking my friend's hearts!"

Then Sherlock promptly got up from his big brother's back without another word, listening to him huff and puff trying to get air back, and went down to his basement where their phone sat on a table in front of a rocking chair. Another couch was in the corner and a tapestry was on the open ground.

Sherlock dialed Greg's number. There was ringing and then a voice.

"Hullo?"

"Is this Gregory Lestrade?" Sherlock asked angrily.

"Yes."

"Gregory, this is Sherlock Holmes, and I've just called to say you have horrendous taste in men."

Sherlock hung up immediately.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sherlock hates Mycroft, but not as much as he loves Greg.


	8. Chapter 8

Greg and Sherlock were sitting in the middle of the rugby pitch, skipping class together and openly smoking steps. Sherlock had his legs straight out in front of him and was leaning back, resting his weight on his left hand as he smoked with his right, he was studying Greg.

Greg's eyebrows were knitted pretty tightly together. He was sitting Indian Style and looking at his cigarette as the ashes got blown off in the wind, the black hair that was turning grey at such a young age was also blowing in the wind. Looking up, Sherlock could see that it was going to rain soon, and, because it was London, about fifteen minutes after it started raining, it would soon stop.

"Is that really what he said?" Greg asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"He said that," Greg repeated, and it wasn't a question, it was a statement.

Greg, looking up at the dark and pendulous clouds that were forming above head as Sherlock was, put the cigarette in his mouth and sucked hard, then blew the smoke away in the direction of the sky.

"Why do we smoke these?" Greg asked worriedly.

"What?" Sherlock said, looking to Greg.

"Why do we smoke these?" Greg asked again, looking even more worried, "Why do we fucking _do this _Sherlock? We're paying a company to give us sticks that we will light on fire and suck on and start coughing and vomiting. And we're gonna get cancer! In our mouths! In our lungs! And God knows what else this will do to us…that's it…I quit…I'm stopping…" Greg finalized and crushed the butt of the cigarette onto the ground and flicked it away.

"Greg, you love fags," Sherlock said simply, "you're only doing this because you're mourning not being able to be with him."

"You know what, Sherlock?" Greg started shouting, and again Sherlock instinctively pulled back, because he knew it took a lot for Greg to get angry, and when he did: get out.

"You're such a fucking prick sometimes! I mean you really are, you say such mean and hurtful and fucked-up things to people all the time. And do you even _know _that you do? Do you even _know _that you hurt everyone's feelings all the time? You know how many times I've comforted Molly after practices or after gigs and you were drinking pints and she was having violent little punk-demon breakdowns in the bathroom and I had to hold her back from fucking you up because you know, Molly, Sherlock. She'd fuck you up. And she hates it when people complain she's a bad singer. And, Jesus Christ, Sherlock, just _Jesus Christ, _what kinds of shit do you say to John? He must put up with _so much shit _being with your sorry-ass. You know what you are? A psychopath. A fucking psychopath. Now gimme back my cigarettes, because I never wanna fucking talk to you again."

Sherlock watched wordlessly as Greg snatched away the cart of cigarettes, and stamped off with his shoulders hunched over and kicking things on the way off the field. There were so many things going through Sherlock's brain as he watched Greg walk away.

_Is he right? Do I even know I'm saying such shit to people? I can't stop half of the words that come out of my mouth. I didn't even know Molly's ever been angry with me. I just thought she's permanently angry. Is he right? Oh God. Oh no, what have I said to John? God, think just think. What have I said to him?_

Sherlock put his hands on either side of his head and curled his knees up to his chest as he was trying to think of everything he's ever said to John. He could remember everything he'd said to John, everything. But fuck he could not tell if John was ever bothered by the shit he'd said. He couldn't tell if John laughed at him because John thought he was funny, or because he thought Sherlock was easy to make fun of, or because he was hiding that he was hurt. He couldn't tell what John thought and it was making Sherlock sick like he was going to vomit. And he kept thinking _psychopath, psychopath, psychopath, psychopath. _

It whispered in his ear as a schizophrenic might whisper back at their voices, so low in his mind, and so menacing. Like the voices were going to completely overtake him, crawl up to him and force his head into the cement.

Disoriented, Sherlock tried to get to his feet and chase after Greg. He was out of the line of sight; he was completely lost in the school he was so familiar with. He was so completely lost. So, Sherlock did what most people do when they're terrifyingly lost: he picked a direction and ran.

Finally, as he heard the _thump-thump-thumps _of his boots hitting the ground, he heard Molly screeching, "Because I LOVE YOU!" she said angrily.

"What?" came the confused voice of one Greg Lestrade. Sherlock stopped dead then. He leveled his breathing while he listened to their private conversation.

"I said…" Molly faltered. Oh God, Molly never paused, or hesitated, or faltered, or anything like that. With Molly it was hard and fast and get it over with, "I said I love you, Greg."

There was a short pause, and Greg said, astonished, "You love me?"

"Yes, you fucker," Molly said gutturally.

"But….what about…Mycroft?"

"Mycroft?" Molly asked, "Who the fuck is Mycroft?"

"The boy. The government that I fucked."

"The fuck about him?"

"Well, it's just that you looked …_happy _when I told you, Moll."

"I was fucking _happy _because I like seeing _you _happy, shit-head," Molly said, exasperatedly, "Don't you get it? _I love you. _I _want _you to be happy, Greg, but I can't deal with holding this back anymore, I want to _be _with you, Greg. Just gimme a fucking chance. I'm a shit singer but fokk if I can't kiss – "

The sound of Molly's tinkling voice was cut off by something, but what? The question was answered when he heard the organic sound of two pairs of lips letting go and Molly sighing.

"Of course I'll give you a chance, I love you too, Molly. You little piss-punk, you're the most amazing girl I've ever seen," Greg cooed to her, _actually cooed. _

The sound of Molly sniffling was followed by the sound of her voice saying through tears, "You're really hot, Greg, want to steal a street sign together?"

Sherlock turned and went back down the hall the way he came, leaving the new couple to their romantic endeavors.

* * *

**Author's Note: **SURPRISE MOLL-STRADE! (I think that's the ship name?) This chapter was actually made as a gift especially for my AO3 reader, Meganbobness. Also, I hope you liked that surprise Mystarde last chapter. Although if you have a very sensitive Mystrade radar you probably could tell it was Mystrade when Greg came in with his Rolling Stones shirt acting all happy.

Anyone want to review this fic? About anything is nice. A new chapter will be up tomorrow (as always).


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock and John had talked before that they were going to start their experiments on Saturday night and spend all Saturday together. John left his house, giving his Mum a kiss on the cheek and avoiding Harry.

"Where are you going, Johnny?" Mum asked, as John attempted to escape out the front door.

"I'm just going to a friend's. I hope you don't mind, I'm going to be spending the night there…" John said, he was trying to state it as a fact, but he just couldn't to his Mum.

"Who's house, Johnny?" Mum asked.

"Oh, you know him," John replied, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh! Sherlock, of course I know him," Mum said, smiling. Which really wasn't what John was expecting his Mum to say at the mention of Sherlock's name; more something like: "You mean the boy with the…?" and then gestures up to her own head. Or something like, "Oh, Johnny, don't you think he's a bit…you know…one of those rebels?" something like that. That Sherlock was being a bad influence on him. Instead he got a genuine smile.

"You don't mind?" John asked.

"Of course I don't mind," Mum said, shaking her head, "Why don't you invite him over for dinner some time?"

"Um – oh, okay, Mum, I will," John said, trying to step out the door.

"And Johnny?" Mum prompted.

"Yes?"

She looked at him worriedly, "Make sure you two stay safe and don't get into any trouble."

"Okay, Mum, we won't," John replied, nodding his head. Then he stepped out the door and started walking in the direction of the Fountain, clutching the strap of his messenger bag harsh in his fist. How could something like the words 'stay safe' make him feel so worried? It was the condoms he was hiding in the bag, among other things.

When he reached the Fountain, he could see Sherlock looking towards the fountain, his back to his lover. Smoke was curling up and away over his head so John knew he'd just exhaled some nicotine. And yes, he was wearing _those _trousers, his Sex Trousers.

"Hullo, luv," John said happily to Sherlock, and the taller man turned around and planted a quick, almost chaste kiss to John's lips, and then bent over to smash the cigarette into the cement ground.

"I have good news," Sherlock said, standing and slipping his hand into John's hands and walking towards the play structure.

"What's that?" John smiled up to him (they were about one foot a part).

"My entire 'family' is going to be out for the night, which means we'll have the entire house to ourselves," Sherlock said.

"Hmm? Where are they going?" John asked.

"Well, Mycroft and Father are still going back and forth about the finances dealing with the immediate family, and Mother has decided that they need to go to a finances professional if they're going to get this done. _Then _Mother said that she was definitely going so she could have a say in this. Mycroft tried to make myself as an inclusion, saying that I should have my word in the matter because one of the topics will be on how much of the finances will be going to my Uni funds. Father, of course, made an allusion to my wardrobe choices and then I do believe I espied something of a joke from him about myself at a bank professional's. So, in summation, everyone will be out of the house for the evening, save for us."

"Don't you want a say, Sher?" John asked.

"Of course I wouldn't mind having a say in the matter, but of course, anything I say now will be shot down by Father. So, really, I'm just raising the white flag in a battle in which the opposing force has all the ammunition and so on."

John could see that Sherlock was already getting agitated, and he had seen Sherlock angry, he had seen that when something was making him angry and it wasn't a person that he could beat the crap out of – he would usually pace, break things, and scream. Today was not the day that John wanted to see that, and he could tell, Sherlock didn't want to let himself boil down to that on this day either.

"Hey, come along, Sherlock," John said lovingly, "You want to go terrorize something?"

Sherlock let a smile break out on his face, and bent down to give John a much rougher kiss, "When do I ever _not _want to do that, sexy? Let's go, let's go."

"Let's go into town, then," John said, and pulled him in that direction.

"What are we going to do there?"

"You'll figure something out," John smiled and laughed.

So Sherlock put his lips to John's ear and whispered, "Run."

Then they ran towards town.

SOUNDTRACK – HOW LOW CAN A PUNK GET BY BAD BRAINS

John stood near an alley where the rubbish bins were hidden, he'd stand there holding his eye and looking pitiful waiting for a poor citizen to take pity on him.

"Are you all right, luv?" some girl, looked to be in her twenties asked.

Sherlock _leapt _from the bin to the surprise of the stranger, and grasped John by the waist, cackling and saying he was the only one that could call John "luv". Sherlock would drag John towards it and pulled him into it.

All citizens looked surprised, confused, but not inherently scared.

"It isn't working," Sherlock said as he rolled his thumb over his lighter, lighting up the darkness in the big bin where they were both sitting on the rubbish.

"What should we do?" John said, who was covering his nose with his shirt.

Sherlock grinned wickedly, apparently impervious to the offending odor.

SOUNDTRACK – I KILL CHILDREN BY THE DEAD KENNEDYS

"God told me to skin you alive," Sherlock whispered to a citizen after 'accidentally' bumping into him.

"You're in a coma," John said to the same citizen. They walked off as if nothing had happened.

"Ever want to die?" Sherlock asked after bumping into another stranger on the sidewalk.

"Of course you have," John finished.

The citizen looked as if he couldn't breathe, he thought he was going to get murdered, but his apparent attackers walked away in

SOUNDTRACK – NO FEELINGS BY THE SEX PISTOLS

Sherlock was busy lying on the grassy fields of a public football pitch, smoking a cigarette and blowing the smoke up to the air.

John was sitting up near him and looking out at everyone else, everyone they could have gone and harassed but were instead taking a cigarette break.

"Sherlock," John prompted.

Sherlock made a contented "mmm?" sound.

"I know," John said and faltered, then used the same approach that Sherlock had when addressing his feelings with John, shoving them all out of his mouth, not caring if it made sense or not, "I know that you can do anything you want with your body and I get that if you get angry at me for saying this to you but it makes me angry when you smoke."

"What?" Sherlock looked at John with his eyebrows clenching together.

"It's just what they'll do to you, Sherlock," John said, "think about it like this: if you were hanging around with someone who was making these constant threats to murder you and do shit things to you, I would beat them within an inch of their life and make sure you never have to see them again. I'd wonder why you've always been hanging around them for so long even if they were saying those things to you, but I wouldn't hold it against you 'cause I've done weird and crap things to you."

"This is what you really think?" Sherlock asked, sitting up, cigarette still balanced between his lips.

"Yes," John said strongly.

Sherlock put the cancer stick in between his fingers and sucked on it hard, held it in his longs for longer than he'd ever had before and moaned out, almost in ecstasy as he let the smoke go. He finished by extinguishing the cigarette on the sole of his boot and flicked it away. Sherlock slipped his hand into his front pocket and pulled out his lighter and his carton of cigarettes, "Here," he said simply.

"What?" John said looking disgruntled and confused, he thought he was giving John a cigarette so he could see how great cigarettes were.

"I'm quitting and I'm going to need you to take these away from me right now before I change my mind and smoke the whole pack and wank in the street," Sherlock said seriously.

"You're doing that for me?" John gushed and pressed his lips to Sherlock as he slipped the lighter and the carton out of his hands and into his own pockets. John's tongue slipped into Sherlock mouth and Sherlock dragged him down onto the ground and on top of him.

"I love your mouth," Sherlock said between heated kisses. John had to stop there because he knew the both of them and "I love you mouth" turned into "I love your hands on me" and "I love your hands on me" turned into "I love your hands on my cock" and "I love your hands on my cock turned into "I love your cock" so John had to roll off of Sherlock.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock said, grabbing the tail of John's shirt as he did so.

"We really shouldn't, not here," John clarified.

"Exhibitionism, John, think about it," Sherlock said.

SOUNDTRACK – TIME-BOMB BY RANCID

John loved watching Sherlock as he watched him walking down the street with such confidence. Maybe it was because he always seemed to almost swagger this way, or maybe because he knew that John was behind him and staring at his arse.

"Wait up for me, Sherlock!" John called.

"Oh, I really don't think you want me to," Sherlock said, and slowed down for the shorter bloke anyways.

"Where are we going next?" John asked, ever to follow Sherlock wherever he was planning to take John.

"St. Bart's," Sherlock grinned.

"Back to the morgue?"

"Yes."

SOUNDTRACK –MOMMY'S LITTLE MONSTER BY SOCIAL DISTORTION

They first entered into the lobby and then followed the kiosk to where they said the morgue was on the fourth level. They went up the lift as John's heart beat in his chest. Sherlock put his hand on John's wrist. John looked at him questioningly, thinking that Sherlock had been going for hand-holding. Sherlock then stuck his face into John's but he wasn't going for a kiss, he was just examining him.

"You're not aroused," Sherlock summed up.

"No," John said, "going to the morgue isn't exactly one of those situations where it's very polite to get a hard-on."

"Your pulse heightened exponentially, I was just checking, I wasn't implying that you might have a necrophilic fetishism," Sherlock summoned scientifically, "Let's go," Sherlock said as the lift doors opened.

Sherlock walked with utmost confidence to the very end of the hall while John scurried after him. At the end of the hall there was a door that had the word "MORGUE" put up in an official sign over the door. The door had a window which Sherlock tapped hard on.

After a while (and a few more knocks) a forensic pathologist came over to the door with her apron covered in fresh blood. "What is it?" she asked angrily.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes and I work for the British Government, we're currently looking at the usages of surgical tools used on cadavers in surgeries such as this one. We're _considering _to put more funding into the forensic departments," Sherlock said all of this as he held up a badge.

"You don't look like a government worker," the surgery worker dead-panned.

"My appearance does not matter for this search, and neither does anyone else's. But, the corpses' appearances do matter."

"Who's he?" she asked, nodding towards John.

"He is my assistant," Sherlock said simply. John nodded as convincingly as he could.

"Where's your badge?" she asked him.

"He does not have a badge, I am his badge," Sherlock said, "Now if you will please let us into your workplace so we can conduct the search."

The doctor looked oddly at the both of them, as if she was making it through her mind of what was happening. "My superior did not tell me there was going to be a search today."

"It's a surprise search, we want to know how things work on a normal day here at the morgue of St. Bart's."

The doctor continued to stare from the badge to "Mycroft" the badge and the man…

"There will be a raise in today's pay," Sherlock promised.

The doctor unlocked the door and opened it for them wordlessly. Sherlock looked towards his "assistant" and flicked up his eyebrows so quickly, John could've blinked and he'd have missed it.

"Thank you very much," Sherlock said, and the doctor lead them into the extremely cold room where the silver cabinets were – the resting homes of the violently murdered.

"Right now, we're working on this victim. He was raped and murdered and left at the side of the road up just North of London," the doctor said of the body that was laid open with his ribs completely cut into. John made a "what a shame" kind of noise, but didn't seem to mind the gruesome scene in front of him. Sherlock looked out-right interested.

Sherlock continued to ask the doctor question after question, which she happily oblidged to answer about the generics of going through and looking at a corpse. She heard a telephone ringing somewhere in the distance and excused herself to answer it.

"No touching the cadaver, sir," she said politely.

"I can't believe we got in here this time," John said happily, "We got into the morgue."

"I want to work in a morgue when I'm older," Sherlock said whimsically, looking happily at the body in front of him.

"You're a disgusting piss-punk," John said lovingly and continued staring at the body.

"Don't pretend you're not enjoying this," Sherlock replied.

"It is more accurate than any other Biology class I've had," John allowed, and suddenly he felt Sherlock swing him around and

SOUNDTRACK – HYBRID MOMENTS BY THE MISFITS

…and push his lips onto John's.

"Why?" John asked, releasing his lips from Sherlock's.

"I want to kiss the person I love in the place I love, it's a perfect sort of marriage."

"We can't kiss!" John argued, "We're near a dead person!"

"He's not really a person anymore, just more of an object, just a body," Sherlock argued back and pushed his teeth back onto John's, kissing him greedily.

As soon as the doctor came back out, they stopped kissing immediately.

"Thank you doctor, we will be putting your program into consideration. On their way out, John managed to get out a strangled, "Cheers" to her.

"Where did you get the badge?" he whispered out the door of the surgery.

"I nicked it from Mycroft."

"Really? Can I see?"

Sherlock reached back into his pocket and produced the badge. "This is fucking brill," John said, looking at it, "it doesn't even have a picture on it!"

"The government's loss is our gain, my good doctor," Sherlock said winking to him and pocketing the badge. The rest of the day was spent in parks and in and around town either talking about films ("Have you seen Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail? It just came out this May! How come you haven't seen it? Come to my house, we should see it!") or each other or music ("I don't know what you're talking about John. I respect that Stones but it is COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY OBVIOUS to people that can actually hear and comprehend music that The Beatles are five hundred times better on the grounds of Fuck You That's Why).

Finally by the end of the night they were at Sherlock's house going through the fridge and eating everything in sight.

"How come I never see you eat?" John asked, stuffing his face in crisps and sitting on the counter.

"I can never care to remember to pack anything for lunch or whatnot, it's mostly binge eating I do," Sherlock said and put his body between John's legs and kissing his crisp mouth.

"I'm eating," John complained.

The only time John had anything against Sherlock's lips on his was when there was either people around or when there was food in his mouth. Any other time, sure.

"I'll be in the basement down here," Sherlock said, "come down when you're all done, luv."

"All right," John said and put the bag of crisps down and looked through his messenger bag to make sure he'd had everything he wanted to bring – yes, it was all there.

His heart was beating hard, it wasn't like he was a virgin, and it wasn't as if Sherlock and him had never had sex. They had sex very often, almost like rabbits; he couldn't count the number of times they'd had hands on each other, body parts touching other body parts. It was pretty glorious, but tonight was different because it was their Experiments and it was planned.

John finished the bag of crisps as he looked at the family photographs that were over the mantle of the fireplace – even though he knew that the Holmes family weren't very emotional with each other, he guessed that this was an attempt to be like a "normal" family. Every picture was obviously posed and obviously photographed by a professional. Everyone in them looked stiff, posed, and not showing any of the emotion that their posed body language attempted to let onto.

Although, John did giggle at Sherlock's "smile" in the photograph that he couldn't have been older than six. It wasn't much of a smile as much as it was a baring of his teeth.

"Sherlock?" John called down as he went down the steps to the basement, he looked out to see that the basement was a big room with Indian rugs on the floor, a couch pushed up against the wall, and a circular table with a telephone and a record player (no records).

"Oh wow, this is nice," John said, appraising the room and going down the last step.

"My Mother wanted to get into yoga and meditation after a trip to India when she was younger, she built this room thinking that it would give her motivation, but she hasn't used it ever since we moved in here," Sherlock explained.

"No records?" John asked.

"All of them are in her and Father's room," Sherlock explained, "You want to sit on the couch with me?"

SOUNDTRACK – SKULLS BY THE MISFITS

So John dropped the subject and sat down, with his legs tucked under him and started kissing Sherlock. Sherlock attempted to slip off John's shoulder-bag, "You've been clutching to this like a mad-man ever since I saw you this morning," he commented.

"Yeah," John agreed and dropped the bag to the floor and brought his lips back to Sherlock's. They breathed in each other and let their tongues meet again. John held his hands in Sherlock's hair and pulled at it just a little bit, gently, and Sherlock moaned appreciatively into John's mouth.

John threw one leg over Sherlock's lap and straddled him, Sherlock kept his hands placed firmly on John's bum and squeezed. Their tongues came together and slid with each other. John finally let go of Sherlock's mouth and started sucking on his neck.

"Oh, that's nice," Sherlock sighed.

John moved his head so he could suck once on Sherlock's Adam Apple and then suck on the other side of his neck. When John heard Sherlock start a low growl in the back of his throat he knew he had to let go.

"Okay, I'll be right back," John said and slid off his lap, grabbed his bag and galloping over to the staircase.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock whined, exasperated and half-hard.

"I promise I'm not leaving, just stay there for a bit," John said and went up the stairs.

Sherlock heard the door to the basement slam.

John decided to get un-dressed right at the door. Sherlock had promised John that the Holmes would not be getting home until late that night, maybe ten or eleven, and it was only eight o'clock. So he took off his shirt, his trouser, his socks and shoes so he was standing there in only his pants.

He opened his bag and there were the things he nicked from Harry's room. The thigh-high black stockings and the ridiculously sparkly high-heels. He pulled on the stocking with ease, leaning up against the table. Then he slipped on the heels and began walking toward the door, to only realize that walking in heels was thousands of times harder than he though. The women in the films he saw always walked in heels like it was so easy! Why couldn't he? He opened the door to the basement and eased himself down every step. Taking longer to do so than he thought.

SOUNDTRACK – SALVATION BY RANCID

Sherlock could hear the click-click-click of the heels and knew what was about to happen, he pried his hands away from his cock, trying not to wank off at that moment.

John finally was down from the last step and he sighed audibly, relieved.

He stood there in front of Sherlock in his black pants, the black stockings (he cursed his sister not having the suspenders to not go with them!) and a pair of high heels. He could see the amount of arousal on Sherlock's face. He couldn't see the minute things happening to Sherlock's body – like his chest flushing under his shirt, his pupils dilating, his pulse raising. He could see that his breathing was much more labored and the cock in his jeans was becoming more pronounced.

Encouraged, John put one hand on his hip, and licked his lips.

"Stop teasing me and come over here," Sherlock said. It wasn't a demand or a grunt, and it wasn't anything guttural. It was a whimper. Then Sherlock finally put one hand on his cock through his jeans and continued to look his lover up and down.

More confident, John took a few strides over to the couch, miscalculated and fell hard onto the ground.

"Oh God," he heard Sherlock say and immediately get off the couch so he could go over to him.

SOUNDTRACK – IRIS BY THE GOO GOO DOLLS

"How are you? Are you hurt? Are you okay? Do you need help? Do you want me to call 999? Talk to me, John. What year is it? How many fingers am I holding up?" Sherlock fretted over him as he pulled John's head onto his lap so they could be face to face.

John fought off the tears that were stinging his eyes, and tried to console Sherlock that he was fine. "I think I've twisted it, thought."

"Let me see," Sherlock said and gently set John's head down on the floor so he could examine his ankle. John watched as he looked closely at it, thinking that Sherlock was going to patter on about bones and dealing with fractures and different types of fractures.

Except, Sherlock didn't do that, he just pressed his lips to John's ankle and rubbed at it.

"Thank you," John said, letting a few tears fall from his eyes. Sherlock laid down next to him and kissed the tears away.

"Do you want me to get you some pain medication?" he asked.

"No," John said, "just lie here with me."

So they laid there and kissed chastely for a few minutes before Sherlock said, "I love you, John."

John obviously relaxed more into the floor, "I love you too, Sherlock," he said, and as more tears fell he said, "And thank you for finally saying that."

"What?" Sherlock sounded confused.

"You've never said that before," John said trying to hold back his anger, "How come you've never said that before now?"

"I didn't know, I didn't know before now that I haven't said that," Sherlock stuttered.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock! I prompt you all the time to say that to me! I say 'I love you' all the time to you but you've never once said it before just now. Why not?"

"I didn't know – "

_"Don't you love me?" _John said angrily and bent to get off his heels, then he stood and started taking off the stockings.

"Of course I do!" Sherlock said, standing and trying to keep both hands on John so he wouldn't fall again.

"Then how come you haven't said it until now?" John asked, all red eyes and worried expression.

"Because," Sherlock tried to say, "because…I really do love you but sometimes I don't know how to say it. I didn't but I'm saying it _now, _John. I'll say it now and I'll say it a hundred thousand times every day from now on for as long as I know you if that's what you want me to do."

SOUNDTRACK – KILLERS BY CASIOTONE FOR THE PAINFULLY ALONE

"I'm sorry," John apologized and put his face in Sherlock's chest, "I don't know why I got so emotional, I just did."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and said, "Lestrade said something to me one day and I want you to answer me something."

John answered back with a muffled, "What?" into Sherlock's chest.

"He told me that I'm…impolite and hurtful to others and I don't realize it, and I wanted to know if I've ever said anything to you that was hurtful."

"Of course you haven't," John said, looking up at him, but not pulling away, "Everything you say to me is wonderful, I don't even mind it when you joke about exhibitionism or talk about me nagging you. But if you love me, Sherlock, I need to _hear _it."

"Then I love you," Sherlock said and picked John up by his waist and pulled him in for a kiss.

"My ankle really hurts," John whined, "I think I'll take those medications now."

So Sherlock carried John up the stairs, bridal style, to the first floor, then up another flight of stairs and into his bedroom where he tucked him in and gave him some medications and a glass of water. John swallowed them down, thanked Sherlock, and fell asleep as soon as the taller man slipped into bed with him and held him close.

"I love you, Sherlock," he whispered.

"I love you, John."

John smiled and held Sherlock's hand as he drifted to sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note - **I really can actually write smut [violently shoves my other works at you as proof] someone even said her panties got wet from it! (Okay, so I'm just boasting now). But, yeah, sorry the chapter is late, but here it is.


	10. Chapter 10

John woke up to his favorite sound in the world – a drizzling rain tapping on the window-pane. He forgot where he was for a second and realized as he looked around the cluttered room that he was not indeed in his own room. As he gently turned himself around he saw Sherlock asleep, head in the pillow.

It was amazing, John was thinking, they had slept together without actually _sleeping together._

John gently brushed his fingertips against Sherlock's curls, pushing them out of his face. Sherlock woke up at his touch then, eyelids fluttering, and lips turning into a smile. He listened to his own favorite sound in the world, John's breathing.

"Good morning," John whispered gently.

"Good morning," Sherlock whispered back, "What time is it?"

John craned his neck up to see the alarm clock/radio on Sherlock's bed-side, "It's seven-thirty."

Sherlock groaned, "It's too early, go back to sleep."

So John laid back down again and pushed his legs through Sherlock's legs until they were inter-twined, and then pushed his face into Sherlock's chest and breathed him in. As he breathed out, he heard Sherlock sigh and soon they were both back asleep.

John woke up again hours later, and amazingly, the rain had not given in, there was still a constant tapping on the window. The alarm clock/radio said that it was ten-thirty-nine. John untangled himself from Sherlock and stood, feeling wobbly after a good night's rest.

His ankle was stiff and a little sore but moveable and he walked around the room, getting the schoolbooks off the floor and placing them neatly on a pile on the desk. He looked down at Sherlock's wooden swivel desk-chair.

John's clothes were neatly folded up and placed (trousers, shirt, pair of socks) on top of his messenger bag. Sitting on the floor, upright, were his shoes. John felt panic set in.

"Sherlock," he said and shook his lover awake, "Sherlock, wake up."

"What is it, John?" Sherlock huffed and rubbed his eyes.

"I think your Mum knows I'm here," John said, pointing to his clothes, "look, I left my clothes downstairs and now they're up here."

Sherlock smiled at John, "It's okay," Sherlock said, "It was me. I folded your clothes and brought them up here."

"Oh," John said and crawled back onto the bed and got under the covers, "Okay. Why'd you fold my clothes then?"

"I wanted a cigarette," Sherlock explained, "You know how we wrote in our hypotheses that I'd smoke after we had sex? Even though we didn't have sex, I still felt like one. And I knew I couldn't so I busied myself like that. I was going to write a paper of our findings but I think the only thing we really found was that you can't exactly walk in high heels."

"I didn't know it was going to be that difficult!" John defended, "I would have practiced first if I'd have known. Anyway, thank you."

As they were giving each other innocent good-morning kisses, they heard some bustling going on downstairs.

"They're home," Sherlock said, angered.

"I'm sorry," John said, "Do you want to come over to my house today so you don't have to deal with them?"

"No, that's all right, I think you deserve a day without me for once," Sherlock replied.

John smiled and gripped the front of Sherlock's night-shirt in his fist and giving him another kiss, "I'm not going to be bored with you anytime soon."

John looked down towards himself and decided it was time for him to get dressed, they snuck out the front door later, and Sherlock happily walked him in, only to be invited in to stay the day watching Monty Python films and staying for supper.

On Monday, John had a rugby practice and he played achedly and said he fell down a stair wonky as an excuse. John still went on through it, though, and his coach slapped him hard on the back and called him a soldier. Sherlock watched this from the very top of the bleachers, he was picking at the front of his short, and tapping his fingers and his feet, shaking. _I want a cigarette, I want a cigarette, I want a cigarette, I want a cigarette, I want a cigarette _he sang in his mind and tried to occupy himself by watching the dull game.

Suddenly, a dark figure came into his line of vision, and Sherlock flicked his eyes over to see it was a tall man in a black shirt and black trousers and black overcoat on, he climbed up the bleachers up to Sherlock. He sat next to Sherlock and watched the game for a bit.

"Hey," Lestrade said calmly.

"Hullo," Sherlock said.

"Look, I'm just going to jump right into this without beating around the bush," Lestrade said, and Sherlock sighed through his nose, grateful, "I know when I got mad at you last time we saw each other I said some harsh things. I called you a psychopath and that's just plain bullshit. Not just bullshit because that's a crap thing to say to someone, but…you're not a psychopath, Sherlock. You're far from that, I mean, you can be blunt sometimes but you're far from a total loon. I don't revoke my other statements, though, Sherlock, you've said a lot of things to Molly that neither of us appreciate, and I'd like for you to apologize to her, but not if you don't mean it. Never if you don't mean it, Sherlock. Anyways, that's all I wanted to say to you."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, as he watched John smiling and running around on the pitch. He smiled minutely at him before starting, "It's shite of me," Sherlock said angrily to the shaking hands on his lap, "It's shite of me to say that shit to you and your girlfriend – "

"How did you know that Molly's my girlfriend?" Greg cut him off.

"I um…" Sherlock decided that the true story was not going to do in this situation, "The way you say her name now. 'Molly'. Like you really mean it."

"That's how you say John's name sometimes," Greg said, and Sherlock looked surprised at him, "sometimes. Most of the time you say it like you've known each other all your lives. Like you're a really, really old geezer couple."

Sherlock chuckled at Greg, "Yes, I suppose so. We're quite attatched."

" 'Quite'," Greg repeated, " 'Quite' he says."

Sherlock laughed harder, "Tell me. You and Molly, then."

"Yeah," Greg said, proudly, "she's quite a pistol."

This launched a new series of giggles from Sherlock.

"What?"

" 'Quite'."

"Quite!"

Soon Sherlock and Greg were sitting there laughing their arses off and repeating "quite" over and over again. John had been staring at them from the pitch, wishing he understood what was going on.

"QUITE!" Greg and Sherlock yelled at him simultaneously as if this would answer his questions.

John exasperatedly raised his hands and then let them fall down.

"WATSON! BACK IN THE GAME!" his coach yelled, and John sprinted back towards the play.

"Oh, hey, here I got you something," Greg said and shoved his hand into his front pocket, and produced a carton of cigarettes.

Sherlock could have screamed. In fact, he did. John flipped his hand around to see that Sherlock was screaming at a carton of cigarettes, John proceeded to shake his head exasperatedly and keep one eye on him and one eye on the game (quite a feat).

"What?" Greg deadpanned.

"I'm trying to quit," Sherlock growled through his teeth.

"Oh," Greg said and pocketed the carton of cigarettes, "Me too."

"For yours?" Sherlock asked, referring to Molly.

"No, for me," Greg said, referring to his body, "Why, are you quitting for him?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Shit, this is serious…between you two, I mean…isn't it?" Greg said, "I want to go to the wedding."

"Yeah, sure," Sherlock scoffed, thinking that even if John and himself ever really wanted to get married, they wouldn't be able to.

"Well," Greg finished, looking at the carton, "What are we going to do with these?"

"Sell 'em to a lower grade student," Sherlock said, and Greg shrugged, pocketing them again.

Greg excused himself when he saw Molly at the end of the pitch (wearing his Stones shirt), Sherlock watched him walk away and hold her face gently while kissing her harshly. She grabbed his hand and ran away with him, literally.

The rugby team finally broke away and Sherlock crossed his legs, waiting for the moment John would be let off and climb up the bleachers to see him.

As John did this, he looked carefully behind them and around them and then bent down for a veryquick kiss between the two, and sat the same distance away from him as Greg had, even though he wanted to intertwine their legs together as they had the day before.

"How's your ankle?" Sherlock asked.

"Much better," John said, looking down at it, "I should probably not _walk _in heels anymore though."

"You don't have to wear them if you don't want to," Sherlock shook his head.

"And miss seeing that look on your face?" John asked incredulously, "By the way, that doesn't mean I can't _lie down _in them."

"If you keep talking like that we're going to have to take a quick trip into exhibitionism."

John giggled, "Okay, come on," John said, standing, he almost offered his hand, and then he remembered there were still other blokes walking around on the pitch.

They walked towards the tube where John would take one home, and as soon as they were out of the line of sight, Sherlock slipped his hand quietly into John's and said, "Look, I really don't want to push you into anything to quick. Especially with your ankle – "

"My ankle is fine!" John defended.

"Okay, well, we still need to finish the experiments. Yes, we've found I am very, very, very, very aroused by a man in heels and stockings. Especially you, but we have not done the other experiments!"

"All right, Sherlock," John replied, "Mum has her Book Club at the house on Tuesday so that's a definite no. Harry is going out with a friend on Thursday night, but I don't know what my parents are doing that night, so I better check."

"So, we're aiming for this Thursday?"

"I'd say so," John replied, "but I'm pretty weary about doing it with my parents still in the house."

"We've done that before," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, bit this is different," John argued, "Do you feel it? This feels different."

"It really does, doesn't it?" John asked, and when they reached the tube station, John whispered "I love you" to Sherlock and Sherlock whispered "I love you" back. Then they checked one way, checked the other way, and then kissed quickly and John went down the stairs.

At home, Mycroft was working alone with papers at the polished wooden kitchen table. He raked his fingers through his ginger hair and sniffled slightly.

"How come you're still here?" Sherlock asked.

"Hello to you too," Mycroft replied angrily.

"Well?"

"We're still working on things," Mycroft said gruffly.

"STILL?" Sherlock yelled.

"Finances are very, very complicated, Sherlock," Mycroft tried to explain to his little brother.

"It's been two weeks!"

"Well, our finances advisor has seemed to make it more complicated."

"Isn't he supposed to make things more simple?" Sherlock asked, "Why don't you just get a better one and dump it all on him, then?"

"IT'S NOT LIKE THAT!" Mycroft screamed and passed his hands harshly over his face, he breathed out as Sherlock watched this happen, "I'm sorry," he apologized, "I didn't mean to shout at you, Sherlock. I've just been very, very frustrated with these numbers…and uni work and government work…and…"

"And what?" Sherlock prompted.

"It's none of your business!" Mycroft said harshly.

By the way Mycroft was getting so incredibly defensive, he could tell it was something in his personal life, and the most recent happening in his personal life was Greg.

"Did you call him?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, looked down and up at him, and decided to answer truthfully, "Yes."

"What did he say?" Sherlock asked, knowing the answer, but not actually asking to bully his older brother.

"He said he has a girlfriend now," Mycroft said sadly.

"Molly," Sherlock said.

"You know her?" Mycroft asked, eyebrows pinching together in an emotion he never showed.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"Do they like each other?"

"Yes," Sherlock responded, "A lot. They're going to get married someday…probably."

"I can at least be glad for that," Mycroft said in a tone that meant _this conversation is over. _

Sherlock wondered why Mycroft was glad to hear someone he had sex with was happy with someone else now. Was it because Mycroft cared for Greg more than he let show? He didn't know, and he gave Mycroft a sideways-glance as he left and went to walk up the stairs to his room. He wanted to ask, "Why are you being nice to me?"

And Mycroft looked harshly at the documents about the family's spending, bills, rentals, and supposed future spending, and he didn't look up at his younger brother, such a long distance between them. He thought to himself and longed to ask, "Why are being nice to me?" but questions that don't get asked never get answered.

Sherlock walked silently up the stairs and stayed at the top of the staircase and listened in his Father's and Mycroft's conversation – business-like, no emotions.

"Do you see this here, Mycroft?" Father asked.

"Yes, Father," Mycroft said, military, "I can see the correlation between this and this…and I think if we cut this…"

It went on like this, not once breaking for a chuckle or an informal question "How are you and Mother?" or "How is Uni?" Nothing like that. Sherlock watched as Mother walked out of her room, the one shared with Father.

She was a beautiful woman, really, but the age was shown in her face and how slowly she walked. She almost never smiled, and when she did, it didn't seem very genuine.

Mother put her hand up and touched the side of Sherlock's head, which Sherlock first mistook as a gesture of fondness, "Fix this," she said instead, "or shave it all off evenly, Sherlock."

As she walked down the stairs, Sherlock felt very lonely in a full house.

* * *

**Author's Note - **Greg, luv, we all want to go to that wedding.

Also, another chapter uploaded in compensation for the last being horridly late.


	11. Chapter 11

After John took a quick cold shower, put on his house-clothes, and went down to see his Mum in the kitchen with still-wet hair he caught his favorite smell in the kitchen.

"Are you making Bubble and Squeak, Mum?" he asked happily.

"Yes, Johnny," she said, smiling genuinely, "and I'm going to put the left-overs in _our new Tupperware!"_

"I thought we got new Tupperware two weeks ago?" John asked.

"I'm still really jazzed about it," Mum replied, "Now go put your Sports Bag in the basement, I need to put it in the wash cycle before the dryer goes off, Johnny."

John ran up the stairs to fetch his bag and then threw it into the basement and went back to talk to his Mum (after his Mum scolded him that you _do not throw things in the house young lad go back and put it nicely on top of the wash) _"Mum, is Harry going out Thursday night?"

"Yes, she is," she nodded and stirred the pot of delicious cabbage.

"She's going out with a friend, right?"

"That's what she said."

"Like? A boyfriend friend?"

"I don't think so," Mum replied, "She said it was a girl."

"Oh," John said.

"Why are you asking, JohnnyBoy?"

"I was just wondering," John's eyebrows pushed down into his eyes, and shook his head, "are you and Dad going out anytime soon?"

Mum giggled as she wiped her hands on her pretty pink apron. John looked at it and remembered she'd gotten it for Christmas from Dad. She looked so pleased when she unwrapped it, she was especially "jazzed" about the tiny frills that were at the edges and the extra pockets at the front.

"I don't think so," Mum shook her head, "Why would we anyway?"

"Well, it's just, you went steady with him at one point, didn't you?"

"No, it was an arranged marriage," Mum shook her head and scoffed.

John laughed, chuffed, he rarely heard Mum make a joke, and when she did it was quite a treat. She smiled sideways at him, leaning on the counter. "Stir this for me, Johnny," she said and went to the fridge to get out the pack of bacon strips.

So John took over the station where he stirred the boiled cabbage (trust John this is delicious) and continued talking, "Well, Mum, why is it that when people get married they stop going on dates and things like that?"

"Because," she said, and got out a frying pan and poured corn oil into it, turning on the burner, "it's just….it's not something you do. You're already together, so what's the point? You don't need to romance each other anymore. You don't need to try to impress them, you live together, you have children together. Dating is for young people, I'm old now."

"You're not old!" John chuckled.

"I am so!" she said emptying the bacon into the frying pan and listening to the roaring sizzle of it, "You wouldn't exactly call me young, would you?"

John tried to think of a nice way of saying "No," and decided that a better answer would be "You're old if you feel old, Mum."

"And I feel old, Johnny," she nodded, but she didn't sound like she was joking now. She sounded serious, almost like it made her sad.

John watched her and paid attention to her as he stirred the cabbage.

"My babies are growing up," she said and took his face into both of her hands, "I can even feel your stubble, Johnny! It was just two weeks ago you were a little newborn baby!"

John tried to make polite incomprehendable and inaudible noises that meant, "Please stop," but his Mum continued on.

"My babies are growing up so fast," she cooed at him, and suddenly shoved his face into her chest and hugged him, "Did you know you used to call me 'Mummy'? I know everyone calls their Mum 'Mummy' at that age but you were especially cute! And you couldn't pronounce 'Harry' yet so you called your big sister 'Haha'! You used to put your face against the windows and wait for Dad to come home with Harry from Primary school and you'd scream 'Haha!'. You were so pleased when she was home!"

"Okay, Mum," came his muffled response.

He couldn't see her but he did hear her starting to sniffle.

"Mum, are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm just really emotional right now!" she said and started wiping her eyes with her apron then looked at the bacon and started fussing over how they were going to burn. So she pushed him out of the kitchen and said she could handle dinner and told him to go up to his room and finish his homework.

* * *

**Author's Note - **This chapter was short because I started crying and had to take multiple breaks. What can I say? I have a Mummy too, John, and I don't get to see her as much as you get to see yours.

This chapter is dedicated to my Mummy. I love you and miss you, Mum.


	12. Chapter 12

John went to the corner-store after a very satisfying dinner of cabbages and bacon and potatoes and bread that makes up Bubble and Squeak. He took his money and bought all the packets of gum that he could buy.

"You trying to quit, mate?" the cashier said, standing in front of a wall of cigarettes and condoms (it amazed John how strongly he was reminded of Sherlock when he saw those two things).

"No my friend is," John said. He was very good at calling Sherlock his 'friend' even though he desperately wanted to put a _B-O-Y _in front of the word.

"You're a good friend," the cashier praised, and as John took the bag of the almost unlimited packs of spearmint gum and walked out the swivel doors.

"Hey, tell your _'friend' _I say best of luck!" the cashier called out, chuckled to himself and sat back down on his little stool behind the counter.

John scowled, but he shook his head and tried to look like he didn't know what the cashier was talking about. He walked back home quietly with a bit of a swing in his step because he had _Touch-A Touch-A, Touch Me_ stuck in his head.

"I brought you a present," John said proudly and produced the large bag of gum to his boyfriend. They were standing in front of the front entrance of the school, it was pretty packed with students who were loitering before class.

Sherlock curiously took the bag and looked into it, he smiled, "Thank you, John; this is what I desperately needed." Sherlock set the bag down near his feet and tore open a packet, then stuck three strips of gum into his mouth and started aggressively chewing them. He then picked the bag up from the ground and emptied the rest of the gum into his bag.

"So," Sherlock said, and chewing the gum, leaned against a wall, crossed his arms, then his ankles and looked John up and down, "Did you talk to your parents?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, no I don't think so," John shook his head and scowled thinking of how the pink of his Mum's apron looked so up-close.

"You don't think so as in you don't think they're going out or what?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't think they're going out, Sherlock," John said, "She just talked to me a lot about how people just don't date when they're not married anymore."

"Can we make them go on a date?" Sherlock asked, but it wasn't a question to John, it was a question to himself, John knew this because he saw as Sherlock unfocused on John and focused instead into air above his head.

_"No, Sherlock," _John said very firmly, and Sherlock was surprised at how firm John was, and looked immediately to him, "We're not going to make _anyone _do _anything."  
_"Don't you want to finish the experiments?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course I do, Sherlock," John sounded exasperated, "But we are not going to make my Mum and Dad do anything, or your family do anything."

"When did you suddenly become the boss of this relationship?" Sherlock asked.

"I am not the boss of anything," John threw up his hands, "I'm just setting lines. We're not doing that, okay? I'm _safewording _you, Sherlock. We're not doing that."

Sherlock seemed to understand it as it was put like this, "Okay," he said simply.

The bell rung just above their heads, and John had to cover his ears so they wouldn't hurt, but Sherlock seemed used to loud noise.

"I have to go to Bio," John said and pushed the strap of his bag over his head, "Are you going to go to class?"

"No," Sherlock said, and slipped one hand into his pocket, where cartons of cigarettes used to sit nicely on his hip but now a packet of gum sat there, "I think I'm going to stay here and think about some things."

"You know you won't get into Uni if you keep skipping," John warned.

"So?"

"You won't be able to get a job at a Morgue if you don't go to Uni," John said.

"Yes, well," Sherlock replied, "it's very more important now that you've put it like that," and he picked up his bag and slung it over one shoulder. As John was moving to the exit, and the people started to disappear, Sherlock grabbed John's Sherlock and pulled him back, "I love you," he said.

"I love you too, Sherlock," John smiled, and this time Sherlock checked around them for John and pushed his lips to John's so they could feel their teeth together. Then he swung around, and went around the corner to his class and John was left standing there, smiling, lips tingling.

Greg slipped into his chair directly next to Sherlock's at French Lit class and Sherlock leaned over and whispered, "Mate," he said, "Do you know where Molly's going to be during lunch?"

Their teacher, at the front of the class, eyed them suspiciously. Madame Dixon was always very weary of those two boys with their rock'n'roll trousers, their ridiculous hair, and their childish attitudes.

"Yeah," Greg said, and he clenched his hands and unclenched his hands, and started tapping his toes, he was visibly shaking up and down, "I'm taking her outside campus to get something at the grocer's for lunch."

"Well, I need to come along," Sherlock said.

"No, you can't come along!" Greg defended.

"Why not?" Sherlock whispered back.

"Because, it's a couple thing for this couple only."

"Well, I need to talk to her," Sherlock said.

"You can talk to her some other time."

"Fine, but at least tell her that I want to talk to her."

"Fair enough," Greg attempted a casual shrug but it was hindered by another onslaught of tapping.

"The quitting is getting to you, then?" Sherlock asked.

"Are you bloody kidding me?" Greg hissed, "I almost robbed a corner store for a packet of ciggies."

"Here," Sherlock leaned over and dug into his hand into his bag and shoved a packet of gum onto the older punk's desk.

"Christ, mate, thanks!" Greg said joyously and practically stuffed every strip into his mouth.

"Thank John," Sherlock whispered.

"Molly! Molly!" Sherlock said, running after the blonde-brown haired girl who had a thick ring of kohl eyeliner around her eyes, laughing gregariously with other girls around a Jeep.

"Is that an American car?" Sherlock asked taken aback.

"Yeah," a girl said, "It's mine," she said this in a flirting tone, but Sherlock did not apparently pick up her meaning behind this.

"What do you want Sherlock?" Molly asked and blew a green bubble, a green bubble a lot like the gum that he'd given Lestrade.

"I need to talk to you," Sherlock said urgently.

"Yeah? So talk?"

Sherlock looked pointedly at the other girls whom he did not know. They all had rims of kohl around their eyes, popping gum in their mouths. They wore bell-bottom jeans and loafers and had Farrah Fawcett hair. One girl had on a Beatles shirt and attempted to praise Sherlock of _his _Beatles shirt by throwing up some horns and saying, "Rock on, mate."

"What is it, Sherlock?" Molly asked, rolling her eyes.

"It's about John," Sherlock said.

"What happened?"

"I just…" Sherlock said, and looked at the girls who were all looking at him up-and-down. One was reading a magazine and pretending she did not care.

Molly rolled her eyes so far into the back of her head she could see her own brain, "Come on, then, Einstein and make it quick," she pulled harshly on his jacket and lead him away from the car park and into a nearby Ladies' Room.

Sherlock leaned up against the stall and catalogued everything he could take in about being in a woman's restroom as Molly leaned against a sink in equal casual-ness.

"No one's here, what is it, Sherlock? What are you and your beau up to nowadays?"

"I could ask you the same," Sherlock said, "you're chewing his gum."

"So?"

"It's the same amount that he put in his mouth this morning."

"Fine, so we snogged when he had gum in his mouth and now it's in mine," Molly explained, "Now for the love of God, tell me what you want."

Sherlock went on to explain his predicament to Molly about how they needed to have a place to have sex.

"Wait, wait," she suddenly stood and shook her hand at him, "You two – you've never had sex before?"

"No, no, we've shagged a lot before," Sherlock said.

"Then why are you planning it out? You're making it sound like you need it to be detailed," Molly squinched her eyebrows close together in suspicion.

Sherlock tried to find a gentle way of wording it, "We're not going to be having regular sex."

"Define 'regular sex'," Molly shrugged.

"Vanilla, free of kinks," Sherlock supplied.

"So you're going to have kinky chocolate sex?" Molly smiled, and started genuinely laughing, "Kinky chocolate sex! I want that!"

"Did you just fucking say 'chocolate'?"

"It's the opposite of vanilla, right?"

"Yes, of course it is," Sherlock said, and cut to the chase, "Molly, really, we're looking for an empty house, and we were wondering if your house would be of use?"

"'We'?" Molly asked.

"Okay, _I _was wondering," Sherlock humphed.

Molly's mouth twisted to one side of her face as if she was genuinely contemplating this, "Does John know you're asking me this?"

"No," Sherlock said, "but I'll tell him."

"You'd better," she said, "and, yeah, my 'rentals are going to be out this weekend at a science conference, but I'm staying over. So you'd have to deal with me in the house."

"Why can't you and Greg go out?"

"We actually are going to," Molly shrugged, "All right, this Saturday my basement will be all yours," Sherlock smiled at this, but the smile very quickly dropped from his face as Molly got in his face, sticking her finger into Sherlock's face, _"but don't you dare go in my room. I will know if you do, Sherlock. And if you go in there I will HAVE YOU."_

With this, she pushed her hair back behind her head and quickly made her hair a ponytail as she walked out the door.

* * *

**Author's Note - **I'm very happy that Sherlock has found a location that John and himself can finally do their experiments together.

What do you guys think about Molly in this one? Not hard-core enough? Hard-core enough? (Too hard-core does not exist.)


	13. Chapter 13

The telephone rang as John got home and was working on an essay alone in his room, Sherlock had neglected him to walk him to the tube that day, and he was worried. Sherlock and John walking to the tube together every day (and maybe a quick stop at The Fountian) was practically ritualistic between them.

There was a little _knock, knock, knock _at the door. John got up from his laying down position and went to open up the door. It was his Mum, "Sherlock is on the telephone for you, dear."

"Thanks, Mum," John said and went down the stairs with her.

"Hullo?" John said as he picked up the phone from where it hung from the box.

"John," Sherlock's voice said, "Are there people around you? Say 'yes' if so."

"Yes."

"Say 'biology class' if it's your Mum and 'government' if it's your Dad."

"Biology class. Why, Sherlock?"

"I have news about the location in which our experiment is to take place?"

"Really?" John asked excitedly and rolled his finger around in the cord, cutting off the blood flow, "Where?"

"Molly's house?"

"Molly's house?" John asked, taken aback.

"Yes, now continue to make it sound like you're talking with me about a place in which we're going to have a study group for Biology class. I've talked to Molly and she said her parents are going to be out of town for a science conference, and that she and Greg are going out Saturday night. She's given us permission to use her basement _specifically. _Can you bring your stockings and heels? Say 'I have the textbook' if yes, and 'I need to get the textbook from my locker' if no."

"I need to get the textbook from my locker."

"Why not? Uhm, nevermind, we'll talk about this later. Can you get out of the house and meet me at The Fountain now?"

"Hold on," John said, and held the phone to his chest, "Mum, is it all right if I go out and meet a friend some place right now?"

"Why?" she looked concerned, "Don't you want supper?"

"Of course I want supper! I always want your cooking Mum! I just need to talk to Sherlock right now."

"Well, you're on the phone with him, talk to him now," she said.

"No, we need to talk in private," John said.

"Are you planning the over-throwing of the British government, Johnny?" she said, "I knew that Sherlock Holmes was some kind of trouble."

"We're not over-throwing the government, Mum," Sherlock heard John say to his Mum and it made him chuckle a little bit.

"John! John!" he screamed into the phone, trying to get his attention.

"Yes?" John asked, putting the phone to his ear.

"Okay, tell her you need to come to me so you can get some notes for a class and you'll be right back in time for supper. But we need to put in a little filler conversation. So just repeat these words back to me: Well, we should get Molly."

"Well, we should get Molly."

"Because she's got the best notes."

"Because she's got the best notes."

"No, I didn't get those."

"No, I didn't get those."

"I was just in the bathroom for a bit for that part."

"I was just in the bathroom for a bit for that part."

"All right, I'll try to come over."

"All right, I'll try to come over."

"Now hang up the phone, John."

John hung the phone up from the hook, unwrapped his finger from the cord and asked, "Mum, I need to go Sherlock's so I can get some notes."

"Which class?"

"Biology."

"All right, but you need to be home for supper, Johnny."

So John got his coat and keys, and went out the door so he could take the tube and then walk to the Fountain. He saw Sherlock staring at the fountain, his back facing John, he remembered the last time he saw this and how the smoke was missing from him. He was glad Sherlock decided to let his lungs heal, but he knew that he was probably in a lot of pain from letting go of a vice just for John.

John stood next to Sherlock and wrapped one arm around his waist. Sherlock smiled without looking at the shorter man. "How come no one is ever here?" John asked over the constant splatter of water falling on water of the fountain.

"Probably because it's hidden," Sherlock shrugged.

"It's not hidden," John argued.

"Yes it is," Sherlock said, and popped his gum. Yes, John knew he was always going to be kissing a spearmint mouth from now on, instead of an ash tray mouth.

"How so?"

"Do you remember the first time we came here?" Sherlock asked.

"Are you being sentimental with me?" John giggled.

"No," Sherlock answered sharply, "but remembering your first time here will jog your memory, did you know of this Fountain before I took you here?"

John thought for a while, it was just a few short months ago that they'd started going steady, and he remembered that Sherlock took him here after school one day when they were still in the just-kissing-honeymoon stage. "No I didn't," John said, "I didn't even know about the park," John pointed at the play structure that was set far, far away.

"Look around you, John," Sherlock said gently, and when John did he saw that he was surrounded by not trees, nor bushes, but brambles.

"I never realized this place was so ugly!" John said.

Sherlock smiled, "And that's why no one comes here. It's ours now, though, John. I believe you would call it an 'Empire of Dirt'!"

John sat down on the park bench behind them, "Okay, Sherlock, didn't you want to talk to me?"

Sherlock took a second to bend backwards and stretch his back, then sat down next to John. "Yeah," he said, "You said you couldn't get the heels and stockings back?"

"At least I don't think so," John said, "Taking them a second time would be tricky."

"Who'd you take them from?"

"Harry."

"Your _sister?"_

"Yeah!" John defended, "You said that you had that kink or fetish or whatever it is, and so…"

"There's a difference between a kink and a fetish," Sherlock interrupted, "A fetish is a sexual response to something that isn't inherently sex-related. Seeing a man in drag and getting a hard-on would be a fetish because as it is technically _sexy _to some people, it's still a fetish. A kink is enjoying an _act _that's abnormal but sexual. So. It's a question between objects and acts. Transfetishism is a fetish, asphyxophila is a kink."

"You researched this?"

"I research everything."

"What's that second word you said again?" John asked, "Asphyxophilia?"

"Asphyxophilia," Sherlock said, obviously going into textbook-science-mode, "Sexual arousal from not being able to breathe, commonly administered at the time of orgasm. More commonly known as 'sexual choking'."

John smiled.

"What? Do you have a textbook or something of this shit somewhere?" John asked, and Sherlock blushed (actually blushed!) and John continued, "Because if you do, I want to read it and try everything out on you."

"Why?"

"Experiments…"

Sherlock smiled and made a pleased noise in the back of his throat, he put his hand on the back of John's head and bent forward to start kissing him. "How about I just buy you stockings and heels?" Sherlock whined into John's mouth and continued kissing him as he pushed one hand between John's legs.

John smiled into the kiss, and put one hand over Sherlock's hand, "Well, it's not like I'm going to stop you from indulging in your fetish."

Sherlock stifled a laugh as he felt John's tongue coming into his mouth; he pushed his own face harder into the blonde's. "You're bloody good at kissing, John Watson," Sherlock growled and placed his hand directly onto John's crotch.

John jumped up in surprise, moved Sherlock's hand away from him, and backed away on the bench just a bit. "Sherlock, we really shouldn't."

"You said it yourself, John!" Sherlock flailed, "No one's ever here!"

"Well, what were you planning to do?" John said, crossing his legs, trying to hide his obvious erection.

"Feel you up a bit, I suppose," Sherlock said, and then whispered, "Maybe I would've even given you a hand-job, eh?"

"That's against the law!" John screeched, and he let loose finally with some pent-up anger, "Do you _have any idea _of how bad it would be if we got caught by someone. They would call the coppers! The coppers would call our parents, Sherlock, we can't. We can't do it. I won't."

There was a bout of silence as John pointedly looked away from Sherlock, and Sherlock continued to study the little bit of John's face that he could see, and finally said, "I take it your safewording me again?"

"Yes," John said, "and I think we should come up with a safeword right now."

"Okay," Sherlock said, "You decide."

John looked back to his boyfriend, and searched for a random word, "Photograph."

"Why photograph?" Sherlock asked.

"It's just the first word that came into my mind," John shrugged, it seemed as if his anger was short-lived.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, "I suppose it would be wise to stop making exhibitionism jokes from now on."

John laughed a hearty laugh, one with his head thrown back, not the usual little giggles he gives, "No, Sherlock, I don't mind your exhibition jokes as long as they stay jokes, and thank you for saying sorry. And I'm sorry too; I shouldn't get angry like that."

"You have a right to human emotion," Sherlock said, "Are we okay?"

"Of course, always okay, Kings of Okay," John said and slid towards the brown haired man and kissed him gently, letting one hand go up to his hair.

"Oh," John observed, one hand petting Sherlock's hair, "You're growing it out. The part that you used to shave all the time. Why?"

Sherlock made a non-committal noise and shrugged, "Just want to do something different."

They kissed each other chastely for a few more minutes before Sherlock leaned over and spit out his gum and then continued to kiss John. "You taste good now," John praised.

"Not so much like licking an ash tray?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, more like licking a spearmint leaf," John joked.

"I'm glad _you're _at least enjoying it," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John leaned back from Sherlock and asked, "Why did you quit smoking?"

"For you," Sherlock supplied, with added _of course _in his eyes.

"You never had to do that for me," John said, rolling his thumbs over Sherlock's palms, "When I said those things I was just telling you about how I felt about it. I don't expect you to change anything about yourself for me, Sherlock."

"I changed because you brought up the facts, John," Sherlock said seriously, "I'm a man but not unlike any other human being I do have contradictions within myself. This is me speaking objectively, of course. I'm quitting because you're right, John. It's shite of me to do that to myself every day I'm essentially destroying a vital part of my pulmonary, nervous, respiratory, and blood systems."

"I didn't want to say this but I'm glad you feel that way," John admitted, "because I like my Sherlocks _not _self-destructing."

They pressed their lips together, and suddenly John looked over-head, "Shitfuck!" he proclaimed, "It's getting dark, I have to go home for supper!"

"I'll walk you," Sherlock said, and walked with John back towards the tube system and put two more strips of gum in his mouth.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too," John whispered back, "At Molly's on Saturday night, then?"

"I'll meet you at the Fountain in the evening and then walk you there," Sherlock said, "What time?"

"Seven o'clock?" John asked.

"Perfect," Sherlock smiled, looked around at the strangers, and waved goodbye without a kiss.

"Bye," John said, watching him leave.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note - This chapter's got smut.**

At seven o'clock on Saturday night two young men could be seen eyeing each other around a Fountain in a misplaced park, one would smirk at the taller one, and the taller one looked terribly smug. The taller, curly-haired young man would go up to the shorter-blonde haired man and take his face in his hands, then press his lips to his. The curly-haired man's tongue would lick the blonde-haired man's bottom lip, and the kissed would hold the wrist of the kisser and sigh heavily into his lips.

"Hullo," they would finally say, letting their London accents weigh into their voices. If a stranger would have seen this sight, maybe they would cringe, _two men kissing? _The stranger would spit in their mind, _What is the world coming to?_

And the two young men were careful, sure, about not displaying their affection in any way publicly, but sometimes the moment over-took them, and when you're in an amorous relationship with someone, and neither of you are inherently asexual (even though Sherlock has been thought to be by classmates) there's just something that makes you never want to take your hands off of your partner.

Holding hands, arms wrapping around shoulders or waists, patting and rubbing your backs, petting their hair, chaste and quick kisses and not so chaste and quick kisses. Sometimes affection isn't so virginal, and there's nothing wrong with that, and there's nothing inherently wrong with affection between two people never actually becoming physical.

Sherlock and John were physical with each other, very much so. Tonight was the night that they would finally be able to finish their so-called "Experiments" as named by the two science-loving boys. Experiments. A fantastic name for those that are caught in the death-grip of adolescence; it's fantastic, isn't it? It's fantastic and terrifying; I hope you haven't forgotten that if you've lived to see the end of adolescence. It's been called, by a teacher of mine, "A time we can put on many hats." They're tried on, and taken off when we don't fit, and they'll stay on if we continue to fancy how they look and feel atop our heads.

Experiments.

John and Sherlock went past the park, holding each other, wrapped in each other's arms and towards a friend's house.

SOUNDTRACK – FROM ST. KILDA TO FITZROY BY AMAND PALMER AND THE GRAND THEFT ORCHESTRA

Molly's house was beautiful, a white two-story house with green shutters, but Sherlock wasn't planning to behold the beauty of a house; he was planning to behold another's beauty. John's. They stopped in front of the green door, Sherlock knocked then put his arm around John's waist. Molly answered the door, fixing one dangling earring into her right ear, smiling broadly. She had on a deep red lipstick and thick eyeliner, with high reaching eye shadow all the way to reach her eyebrows. She was wearing a corset like at Oktoberfest but without the poofy sleeves and a short tight skirt with black nylons. She had no heels, though, just converse sneakers that were worn out and taped together after wearing them for so many years.

"Hullo, boys!" she boasted genuinely, happy, "Nice to see you again, John."

She kissed them both on their cheeks and invited them into her sitting room, where Greg was sipping a cuppa tea with one leg crossed over the other. He was wearing his Dead Kennedys shirt (with real logo, not home-made) and leather jacket. Sherlock could tell by the bulge in Greg's cheek that he had a large ball of gum stuck in there, held so he could drink.

"John!" he said, and leaned over the coffee table to give him a big Man Hug.

"Hullo," John said politely, "Greg, is it?"

"That's right, and don't you forget it, mate," Greg nodded, then looked to his girlfriend and grinned, "Well, they're here, doll-face, let's get to it, then, shall we?"

"Don't call me doll-face!" Molly argued, "And yeah, come on. Sherlock, John, don't go in my room and don't make a mess, is that clear?"

Both nodded, and soon Greg was kissing Molly and walking out the door with her.

"Where do you think they're going?" John asked.

"A pub," Sherlock said confidently, "Do you want food?"

As Sherlock walked into Molly's kitchen, John protested, "But she said we couldn't make a mess."

"We won't," Sherlock shrugged, "I'm sure she won't mind. Really, the only thing that Molly's truly pissed about is us going into her room."

"We shouldn't go in Molly's room," John shook his head, crossing his arms, "I've seen her…you know…"

"That's right," Sherlock nodded, "You were there she started the fist fight in the mosh pit because someone tried to upskirt her."

"Yeah," John said, "Did you see that guy's face?"

"How could I not? The blood splattered _all over me. _God, that was the most gruesome broken nose I'd ever seen in my life."

Sherlock said this as he went through the many drawers and shelves in the fridge, and finished with, "Good on her, though, right?"

"It was bloody brilliant, what that was," John praised her.

"To think of it, that's probably why Greg likes her," Sherlock said and started moving to the cabinets.

"Yeah…hey, have you noticed, though? She's kind of…more relaxed now. At least when she's with Greg," John said, pointing to the door, as if this was evidence.

Sherlock looked thoughtful as he pulled a jar of nutella from the cabinet, unscrewing the cap he said, "That's a good observation, John. It's most likely because…the love hormone….it's erratic or it's calming. And it happens to be calming on them."

John was going to ask, "There's a love hormone?"

(Which, there is, it's called Oxytocin, and it's also been mentioned as "The Cuddle Chemical".)

SOUNDTRACK – SALVATION BY RANCID

John didn't ask though, because Sherlock had stuck his finger into the nutella and licked it. The effect was strong on John, if it had been in any other situation he might have been able to handle it. This was different though, he knew what they were here for. John walked over to Sherlock as slow as he could, keeping eye contact, and asked, "Could I have some?"

Sherlock offered him the jar as he was putting a finger in it, but John took Sherlock by the wrist and put Sherlock's index finger into his mouth and kept it there, staring up through his eyelids at the younger, but taller man.

Sherlock smiled and breathed as he watched John do this, and soundlessly put the jar back onto the counter, and started kissing John intrusively. Sherlock pushed John against the counter, and ran his hands through his hair.

"The basement, Sherlock, _the basement," _John whined and Sherlock got off of John and grabbed his wrist then pulled him towards the basement door and down the steps. "Is your ankle okay?" Sherlock asked going down the stairs.

"It's fine, get on the couch," John demanded and Sherlock jumped over the back of the couch and laid down on it, John did the same. Body against body they snogged furiously, rutting themselves against each other.

"I love you," Sherlock said desperately.

"I love you, too," John whined, "but we gotta slow down because if we don't I'm gonna come."

"Okay, all right, all right," Sherlock breathed in and out.

John got into the bag that he had managed to keep attatched to him all the time that they'd gotten to Molly's and down the stairs.

Sherlock smiled smugly as John got into his bag, knowing that John had still been able to get back the stockings and heels. He could tell, John wouldn't have brought his school bag if it wasn't for that.

"Do you want me to strip for you?" John smiled, totally chuffed he'd thought of that.

_**"DO I?!" **_came Sherlock's reply.

"Another kink is born," John said, and stood up to get in front of Sherlock, Sherlock leaned over and pushed the coffee table far, far away so John could have room.

John was not good at stripping.

John thought that a strip-tease was just taking off your clothes in front of someone else (it isn't, there's music and sexy dancing). Sherlock appreciated it just the same (although he kind of wished that he could use his own hands and teeth to pry off John's clothes). John sat back down on the couch to put the black stockings back on the way a man would (rolling them up and then sliding them on). It was sexy to Sherlock, watching each of John's legs becoming enveloped by the cloth was damn titillating.

"You should see the look on your face," John said appreciatively, "You look like such an animal."

John put on the heels (same as last time) and laid back on the couch, palming his cock through his red pants. Sherlock then straddled John, kissed him feverishly, and lowered himself so John could feel Sherlock's hard cock on his own.

John let out an appreciative _"Oh!" _and then started clawing off John's clothes, Sherlock's and John's clothes were littered all over the floor in a distinct urge about them. Soon the two were just in their pants (except for John who still had on his stockings and heels) and John had wrestled Sherlock under him.

"Wait! Wait!" he called out, just before anything was going to go farther.

"Whatever it is it can wait," Sherlock growled and tried to pull John's pants off of him.

"No! We've got to do the safeword signals," John said.

"We've already got one," Sherlock said, "Photograph, remember?"

"No, if I'm going to choke you," John corrected.

"Wait, you're actually going to choke me?" Sherlock asked, at this point he stopped trying to get John's pants off.

"Yes, of course," John said.

Sherlock's eyebrows pushed together; "Really?" he was obviously touched, "You're really going to choke me?"

"That's what you said you wanted," John smiled, "Quick, come up with something."

"Okay, when I need you to stop I'll put my hand on your arm like this," Sherlock said and gripped John's forearm tightly and squeezed.

SOUNDTRACK – SKULLS BY THE MISFITS

"Brilliant," John replied, and descended back down so he could lick and bite Sherlock's nipples, "Mmm, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock panted.

"If I'm indulging you in your kinks will you indulge me in mine?" John said and sucked in one of the nubs of Sherlock's nipples into his mouth.

"Yes, yes, fuck, anything you want," Sherlock whined, one arm was thrown over his eyes. His chest was coloring, his prick was hard, and every time he looked down to see that John had his legs bent at the knees, heels in the air, crossed at the ankles, he thought he was going to be thrown over the edge.

John kissed down Sherlock's abdomen, brushed his nose in his Happy Trail, and pulled down and off Sherlock's pants. John situated his lover's legs so they were sitting over his shoulders, heels digging into his back.

John licked up Sherlock's cock that was sitting in the bed of curly, brown pubic hair. He brought it up and into his mouth and swallowed it down, bobbing his head up and down on it. Sherlock had his fists in John's hair and was moaning loudly, his head thrown back against the arm of the couch.

"Oh, sweet suffering _fuck, _John!"

John pulled his mouth of Sherlock's cock, smiled, and opened his legs wider and pushed his Sherlock's knees up to his chest so he could get to his arsehole. John made a moaning sound, he had seen Sherlock's arsehole the one or two times when John had actually "topped" that night. But never before he was going to stick his tongue in it.

SOUNDTRACK - LET ME STAND NEXT TO YOUR FIRE BY JIMI HENDRIX

John licked it once, which earned a moan from Sherlock, then swirled his tongue around the rim, licked it again and then pushed his tongue into it. By this time, Sherlock was a moaning mess under him, _"Oh, oh, John do that again it was so gooooooood, augh! Ah-ah-ah-ah-amazing!"_

John hummed back to him in appreciation and the vibrations sent new waves of pleasure into Sherlock. "Oh! Oh, John, fuck me now fuckmenow. Come on, come on, I'm ready now. PLEASE!"

John had already been leaning over and trying to pry into his bag to rummage around for a condom and the bottle of lube. As he rolled a condom onto his leaking cock he uncapped and squeezed out some lube on before repositioning himself at Sherlock's entrance, "Are you ready?" he asked.

"John," Sherlock breathed very seriously, "fuck me _right now."_

John pushed in slowly and Sherlock's mouth turned into a perfect "O" and shut his eyes tightly, as John started slowly pushing against him his breathing became labored to the extent of hyperventilating.

"You have to calm down, Sher," John breathed heavy.

Sherlock bit his lower lip and then whimpered, "John, please, faster, I need it."

John started pushing into Sherlock faster, increasing the pace exponentially and smiling, locking eyes with the smiling Sherlock, "You like it hard?" John asked.

"Mmm, yes, oh yes," Sherlock said and continued to give off guttural groans. He licked his lips up at John, winked at him, and gripped his own cock tight in his fist and wanked himself off. John was able to angle himself up into his prostate, and Sherlock's eyes were blown wide.

SOUNDTRACK – SUBMISSION BY THE SEX PISTOLS

"I'm gonna," John breathed, "Oh God, Sherlock, I'm coming," and John's eyes were pushed close and he tipped his head back and let out a harsh and guttural groan as he pushed into Sherlock's prostate and came into his condom.

"Right there," Sherlock was barely able to whisper, "I'm…I'm gonna cum." Sherlock looked up to John with his eyebrows pinched together and pushing up in a pleading look, "Choke me, John, please."

John, not wanting to hurt his boyfriend continued fucking him and laid one hand across Sherlock's neck. Sherlock put his own hand over John's and pleaded, "Choke me, John!"

So John put pressure on him, effectively closing his respiration, and as his breathing was cut off – Sherlock's eyes fluttered into the back of his head and he came, pushing his own fingernails into his neck, along with John's. The noises coming from Sherlock's mouth were like a bird trying to gasp for air, and John tried to pry his hand away but Sherlock kept it there and finished coming.

SOUNDTRACK – LOVE LOVE LOVE BY THE MOUNTAIN GOATS

As he relaxed back into the couch, he moved his hand from John's hand, up to his forearm and squeezed, as John released his hand, he looked at the red marks and half-moon curves left in Sherlock's skin. He pulled out of Sherlock and laid down onto him, kissing the red marks on his neck.

"John, John, John," Sherlock chanted, "that was…that was the hardest I've ever come. I'm absolutely covered. Fucking bloody hell that was…ugh…."

"You look so blissed out right now," John smiled tiredly.

"I feel blissed out," Sherlock said sleepily.

"Does your neck hurt?"

"Fuck no, I feel great," Sherlock said and pushed his head into the crook of the couch and hugged John closer to him, and even though there was no one else in the room, he whispered very gently, "John, I love you."

"I love you too," John whispered back, like they were conspiring.

They kissed tiredly for a while, and then John sat up to quickly take off his heels and stockings, then wiped off Sherlock's cum with his own pair of pants he'd found on the floor. He laid back down on that big, orange couch again – the two pushed their legs intertwined with each other and touched foreheads.

As Sherlock took John's hands in his and started carefully studying his palms with heavy-lidded eyes, John whispered sweet forevers in Sherlock's ears, "You're amazing, you're absolutely fantastic." Sherlock pushed his face into John's neck and breathed in. Sherlock rubbed his lovers tummy and kissed his shoulders. John rubbed Sherlock's back and as John started whispering the lyrics to a love song Sherlock wasn't familiar with, but appreciated, they both drifted off to sleep.

Clothes are littered on the floor, lovers are holding each other in secret on the couch, there's locked doors both literal and metaphorical between them and the baddies. It's a love that can only be whispered, and will only be whispered, until there's an unexpected and violent shout.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note - This is Molly and Greg's night together. **

Molly's mum kissed her goodbye before she walked her out the door, her father gave her a very stern look and wagged his finger saying, "No boys, Molly." Molly smiled politely, hugged them goodbye, wished them good luck, then turned to the empty house that was all her's her's her's. She did a little happy dance, ran around the house turning on all the lights, went to her room to put on a Rolling Stones record, and screamed the lyrics dancing around in a bra and panties. She walked into her kitchen in her bra and panties alone in the house and put the mixer on the floor. She emptied powdered sugar and heavy whipping cream into the mixer and turned it on low. Yes, the ingredients for whipped cream, _real _whipped cream.

She ate the entire tub in her basement, and flipped through the channels, then she called Greg and talked dirty on the phone with him for a half before she hung up to play with herself.

The next day she didn't do any chores, or any homework. She took a shower and then played dress up with clothes from her closet and her parent's closet. She tried on her own clothes, clothes she'd managed to wrangle off from Greg (that was fun), she tried on her father's button-down shirts and ties. She tried on her mother's wedding dress, and her night-gown. She stood in front of the mirror in just her pair of panties for a long while, contemplating her body, she thought about cutting her hair short, she thought about cutting her hair into a mohawk, she thought about leaving it that way, she thought about piercing her ears and her nose.

She called Greg, and talked to him, he'd be taking her to a pub that night. He'd buy her drinks and she'd get totally pissed and not even care that much. She looked in the mirror again after she hung up and decided that she would wear something sexy just for him (but also because she wanted an excuse to wear her lingerie she'd bought from underground sex shops out in public). She took another shower, and shaved her legs, and her underarms, but left her pubic hair alone.

She slipped on a red pair of knickers, then black nylons, and then her corset that pushed up her tits rather well, she thought. She did her makeup straddling her toilet and focusing in the mirror, she did her makeup like how she'd seen in the commercials for Rocky Horror Picture Show. She slathered on red lipstick, and then opened the door when it rang to meet Greg.

After greeting him with a wet kiss, he looked at her (lipstick on his own lips) and said, "Wow, Molly, that outfit is _crazy."_

"Thanks," she smiled, "You've got some on you," she said gesturing to her own lips.

"Do I?" he asked, "Does it look good, then?"

They laughed, and she called him a "bloody poofter" then smashed her lips shut, but she saw that Greg was still laughing so she guessed those jokes were okay, since they came from her.

"Come on," she said, grabbing his hand, and leading him into the living room, "I'll make you a cuppa like we're old."

"Okay, luv!" he called back and laughed, then crossed his legs and pretended to read the newspapers.

As she put the kettle on and put out two cups with tea-bags and sugar in them, she sat back down and started kissing Greg again. He held her around her waist and sucked on each lip before sucking her tongue into his mouth. She fisted his hair and pulled on his shoulder to make sure she was at equal height with him.

He kept one hand in her blonde hair and then let one hand travel down and cup her left breast. "Mmm," she moaned a little in his mouth.

"You like that?" he asked evenly.

"Yeah," she answered, and he turned his head and continued to lightly play with her and kissed her ears and sucked on them.

She smiled, "Ah…that's nice, Greg. Ah, shit, I've forgotten my earrings, mate. I'll be right back."

"You've forgotten your earrings?" Greg asked, "I'm trying to _romance _you, Moll."

"You can fucking romance me when I put my earrings on, Greg!" she called back stepping into the side hall and looking for her earrings in her bathroom.

As Molly was doing this, the kettle started to whistle, and Greg got up to pour the hot, hot water in the cups and pouring in milk. He took the two teacups on their matching saucers onto the coffee table in front of him.

Just as Molly was coming back with her dangly earrings, there was a knock at the door, and Molly skipped sitting on the couch and went right to the door, "That'll be them, then," she said to Greg. He was starting to sip his tea, and crossed his legs to hide his Hopefully Not Prominent Erection.

As she was putting on her second earring, she opened the door and saw the boyfriends standing there, "Hullo, boys!" she called, and looked to the blonde and shorter one, "Nice to see you again, John!"

She grabbed them both and kissed Sherlock then John on their cheeks, and made come-on, come-in sort of gestures and they followed her to the sitting room.

Greg smiled looking at the two holding hands in the sitting room.

"John!" he said, and leaned over the coffee table to pull him into a hug.

John blushed at this, and asked, "Hullo. Greg, is it?"

Greg, in a joking manner replied, "That's right, and don't you forget it, mate," and then looked to his girlfriend standing in the kitchen-way, looking positively beautiful, the contrast of her stupidly-sexy outfit and her obviously ripped up shoes.

"Well," he started, "they're hear doll-face, let's get to it, then, shall we?"

"Don't call me 'doll-face'!" she answered back swiftly and strongly, "And yeah. Come on," she motioned him to come towards him, and then to the two boys, "Sherlock, John, don't go in my room and don't make a mess, is that clear?"

As she saw the two nod (as if they were afraid of her) she smiled and Greg kissed her enthusiastically, and then the two left, waving good-bye, leaving the boys to her house.

"What are they doing alone in your house, Moll?" he asked, one arm around her as they walked to the tube, she had said on the phone before that they couldn't leave until Sherlock and John showed up, "Are they watching your house? That afraid of the government, are we?"

"Actually, no," she said matter-of-factly, "they're looking for a place to bugger in private so they don't get caught."  
"Have they never fucked before, then?" Greg asked curiously.

"Sherlock says they bug a lot," she replied, "and he said, this is his words, they need some place to fuck because they're going to have…um… 'not regular sex'."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Greg scoffed.

"Apparently they're _totally kinky," _Molly whispered in a conspiring voice.

"What?" Greg said back, and they started walking down the steps into the tube system, "Like, what are they gonna do, then?"

"I bet they're gonna tie each other up," Molly whispered and the two stifled their laughter as they bought tube tickets and went in, standing and holding onto the overhead poles.

Greg prompted her about a question somewhere along the lines of, "Mate, you heard the new album just got released last Tuesday?"

"Bollocks," she swore and the two launched into a new talk. _We should get a guitarist, we should get a bassist, we should get TWO guitarists, we can't live on drums, vocals, and keyboard alone. We should kick Sherlock out, fuck he'd be so fucking angry. Oh my God can you imagine the look on his face. I have a camera, we should take a picture. Dear Jesus let's get ANDERSON to play guitar for us. No, no, better let's get that creepy fuck-face MORIARTY to play guitar for us. Oh, yes, this is good. _

As they decided on their terrible joke they laughed and kissed each other, then got off on their stop, it was rapidly getting darker and they walked a few blocks, Greg with his arm wrapped protectively around Molly's shoulder, and her arm wrapped around his waist.

"I like your shirt," Molly said.

"Thanks," Greg replied, "and no, you can't have it."

"I'll get it off of you one way or another," she said decidedly.

They walked a few more blocks and then saw farther up the street there were some coppers with thermoses of coffee watching the streets and the people passing by.

"Fuck," Molly swore, and looked forward towards the coppers, "Greg, they're here," she growled.

"All right, come on, let's go down an alley," Greg said and pulled her hand down through some rubbish bins, "I think they're still after us."

"It was only a few car windows," she whined.

"And a broken nose, and a started bar fight, a stolen lot of beer in your purse, the stint of graffiti, and who knows what else, Moll."

"I like to have fun," she said fondly watching her boyfriend's arse as he climbed up a wire fence.

"You can climb a fence, right?" he asked.

"Of course," she said, and started, "Fuck this is a thousand times worse in a _skirt. How _does Wonder Woman do it?"

"I dunno, but I like the view," Greg said, trying to look up her skirt.

_"No no no! That's mine!" _she cried, trying to hide her crotch.

"My apologies," he said as Molly threw both legs over and balanced uncomfortably on the pole, "I'll ask kindly next time."

"Such a gentleman," she rolled her eyes and slipped easily into his arms from there, "Where do we go from here?"

"Just down one more block and then to the left," Greg said, and then they grabbed hands and they ran towards the front entry to _The Hog and the Hornet. _

"My lady," Greg said theatrically, holding the door open for her, and she curtsied jokingly and stepped in.

The bar was filled with other young punks, some older men (probably alcoholics), and some other people just looking for some music.

"So glad there's a live band tonight," Greg commented, looking towards the stage, where everyone was still trying to get ready.

They both hopped onto bar-stools and Greg called over the bar-keep, "Oi, hey," the bar-keep said to Greg "good to see you again." Then he looked over to his girlfriend, and his eyes flicked down to her prominent cleavage, and when he looked up to her face she was scowling hard. He looked away. Yeah. Women. They were getting scarier by the decade.

"What can I get you guys?" the bartender tried to fix his eyes as he wiped down the bar-top from the spilled alcohol and peanut shreds.

"A pint of Guiness for myself," Greg said.

"And one for me too!" Molly interjected.

"I don't know, Moll," Greg said, "Guiness is pretty hard…"

"Two pints of Guiness please," she finalized to the bartender who backed the fuck off to get her two pints like a smart person.

"Don't pretend I can't drink, Greg," she threatened, Greg held up his hands in surrender and remembered the time she'd gotten drunk with him, Sherlock, and another girl they'd met at a pub they played at, her name was Irene. They got shitfaced at Greg's empty house and Molly downed as much alcohol that she could handle at the speed of light and landed squarely on her nose, it bled a lot and she told Sherlock to "quick get my camera" and she smiled broadly for the camera as Sherlock snapped a picture.

Irene cleaned her up with some tissues and held her like she needed to be consoled. Molly laughed at her for this, and tried to push her away so she could get up to go to the fridge to get some crisps to eat. Sherlock had followed after her, and Greg didn't know what happened then, but when he tried to chat Irene up, she didn't look very interested. Then, later, he found Molly and Irene kissing in his loo.

He looked at her, remembering this, the things she did, and smiled. He'd been cheated on before and he didn't want tha-

The train of thought stopped immediately because the bartender put three pints in front of the two of them. He grabbed one and took a heavy pull, and put it down to see that Molly was gulping hers down hard, watching him.

SOUNDTRACK – DRUNKEN LULLABIES BY FLOGGING MOLLY

He understood now, that she wanted to be able to out-drink him. Maybe tonight, maybe just at some point in the future, but it was clear to Greg that she was trying really hard to be able to handle any amount of alcohol without blacking out. Which was impossible, he thought she was brave.

He hitched one foot around one of her barstool leg's and pulled her forward, she smiled up at him, "Yar drinkin' oop like a true, Irishman, are yeh, Molly O'Hooper?" he asked.

"Your Irish accent is true shite," she answered back in a true Irish accent, "I can handle my liquor, it's in my blood, and soon it's literally going to be in my blood."

A stranger with a mohawk passed by and looked Molly up and down, "Hey sweetheart, where you been?" he asked.

She was quick to start showing off her middle finger and a flurry of "Sod off, useless poseur," came flowing from her mouth. He looked startled and backed off.

"I like a girl that can scare the other boys away," Greg praised. She looked incredibly smug. The band came coming to a crashing beginning and Molly immediately looked to the stage then downed the rest of the pint so she could get up and make it to the mosh pit in time. (Side note: never bring a drink _into _a moshpit. You will spill it and it will be true hell.)

SOUNDTRACK –OH MY GOD BY IDA MARIA

She crashed against bodies and linked arms with other strangers and rounded 'round and 'round as people twirled her around to the drinking song. She slapped other's backs as she grabbed their arms. Greg followed her into the mosh pit not so long after her.

Have you ever been in a mosh pit? It's simultaneously the most violent and most intimate environment you can throw yourself into. Molly had been pushed to the ground in a mosh pit, she'd been given bruises on her arms, her sides, her thighs, she'd slipped and fallen hard onto the ground just to get back up again. Molly had been hugged intimately and warmly by a perfect stranger. At a way, way underground punk club she saw people fucking against a wall nearby a moshpit.

Molly always had the hugest smile on her face when she was in a mosh pit, that was where she belonged, for the time being. Until she woke up the next day covered in bruises. Then she swore off moshpits for a while (the found herself leaping into one once again).

Greg caught Molly unexpectedly and kissed her sweetly on the lips in the middle of the mass of hysterical havoc and then let her go so she could continue her violent dance with others.

Then, she felt a sudden grab on her bum and she turned around, smiling, expecting to see Greg standing over her, smiling micheivously, but it wasn't – it was just another perfect stranger thinking he could set hands on her.

SOUNDTRACK – BAD REPUTATION BY JOAN JETT AND THE BLACKHEARTS

It was very safe to say – he thought wrong.

"THE FOK YOU THINK YAR DOIN, PRICK?" she screamed and reared her whole body back, her right hand closing into a fist and landing squarely on his nose.

"Bloody slag," he groaned holding his nose that was leaking blood at a steady pace.

"The fok did you call me?" she growled trying to grab him by the shirt and bring him back up to her level so she could look in his face.

Around her, the people started breaking out into fist fights, that was prompted by Molly landing a punch on his nose.

_"Slag, wearing that shit cause you're a slaaaaaaaaaaaa-"_

This was cut off by Molly tackling him to the ground, straddling his body and continuing to repeatedly punch him on the face until she could feel her knuckles breaking.

SOUNDRTACK – TUBWUBTHUMPING BY CHUMBWAMBA

She could feel Greg grabbing her around the waist and pulling her off of him, who was still trying to shout at her. He pulled her away from the moshpit and dragged her into the Women's Toilet. Her face was screwed up when he finally got a look at her.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"He called me a slag," she explained.

"That fuckface!" he screamed out, "Did you break his face?"

"Yes," she said, "and my hand."

"It's okay," he said, and set her down on the toilet and wrapped her hand in toilet paper. He kissed it too.

"Ow," she flinched, "that hurt, asswipe."

He laughed at that, "I'm sorry, I'll kiss you here instead."

And he bent forward on his knees in front of the toilet she was sitting on and planted his lips on hers. She licked at his lips and entered her tongue into his, then grabbed one of his hands with her good hand and put it onto her breast.

"Take me here," she whispered to him.

"You're drunk," he whispered back, "we shouldn't."

"I'm not actually drunk yet," she whispered back, her voice was even, not even close to slurred, "I plan to later though."

"That's okay, then, but are you all right?" he asked.

"Yeah, Greg, I'm fine," she smiled, "Do you not want to?"

"No, I want to," Greg assured her.

"Then what are you waiting for?" she said leaning back and opening her arms.

He bent towards her and kissed her roughly again before pushing her arms around her trying to find a zip.

"It doesn't come off like that," she informed him, "I think it's going to have to stay on."

SOUNDTRACK – DO IT WITH A ROCKSTAR BY AMANDA PALMER AND THE GRAND THEFT ORCHESTRA

"I wanted to suck your tits," he whined.

She gave an aroused sigh, laid her worse hand on the wall, and tried to shimmy her skirt up so he could get to her panties. Greg immediately pushed his face into her (clothed) crotch and hummed into it. She moaned, and then, "fuck," and then, "Come on, please, Greg?"

"Well only because you asked so nicely," he said smoothly to her, and then whispered, "Lift your hips, luv," and she planted her feet down and arched her hips and Greg pulled her panties off (and pocketed them). Then he pushed her vaginal lips apart with his fingers and licked her labia before planting his lips and sucking on her clit.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and pushed one hand into his hair, "That's good, that's really fucking good. Lick it, Greg, will you?"

Greg pushed his arms under her knees and brought them up, then opened his mouth and starting pushing hard onto her clit with his tongue and rubbing it.

"Oh fuck, just like that," she growled from the back of her throat, "Keep doing that, Greg. _Oh, Greg, oh…."_

He smiled into her clit, starting to get hard.

"I think I'm gonna come," she warned him.

He growled into her, gripped her thighs harder and moved his head in a nodding motion with his tongue on her clitoris.

She gripped his hair hard and threw her head back, growling hard, and pushing her hips into his face, she came.

"Fuck," he heard him breathe out as she settled onto the toilet again. Someone started knocking on the door.

"SOD OFF!" Molly screamed and watched her boyfriend try to pull out his penis.

"Lean back," she said, and pushed him back on his arse and up against the wall, they both tried to wrangle his trousers and pants off. They made it to his knees before Molly steadied her face over it and swallowed it down. She took her left hand onto the base of it and looked up at him from through her eyelashes and he looked his lips at her, and growled.

She pulled up and down on it with one hand and pushed her mouth around it. She was cradling her hand to her chest and let go of his cock and pulled his bollocks up against her chin. She was rewarded with a loud growl from him and one hand put on the back of her head.

He threw his head back against the tile wall and came into her mouth, she choked on it and then spit it out on the tile floor as he was still coming.

She wiped off his cum with the "bandage" she was wearing, pulled her skirt down and leaned up against him.

"Where are my panties?" she asked breathlessly.

"Must've disappeared," he replied.

"I don't even care," she said and unsteadily got up, bringing her up with him and pushed her body into his, not being able to be away from him.

"Do you want to drink more or just go back home?" she asked giving him kisses.

"We could just go back to yours," Greg replied, "Or we could go to another bar, but I don't think I can go here anymore."

"Full of bloody poseurs," she replied, "I won't be able to land a good punch for some time though."

"The world will melt if Molly Hooper does not punch someone at least once a day," Greg smiled and went to walk them out the door of the loo. (A piece of good news: no one heard them through the music.)

"I could just start kicking instead," she said thoughtfully. Greg handed the bartender some money, before the two took a last gulp of the lager and then left to go back home to Molly's.

When they finally managed to get through the door after the distracted walk-in to another pub and saw another band they knew was playing.

"Are you going to stay awhile? Have a drink?" a band member asked.

"Well, we don't want to be _rude," _they both agreed and stayed for about five more pints of lager, until they were able to go home, promising other, _It's okay, we're taking the tube, we're not driving, it's fine. The worst you have to worry about is one of us falling down! Ha!_

On the tube, she stood next to Greg with her makeup faded and running, both of their faces pretty red from the alcohol. She was smiling contentedly (and kind of tipsy) pushing her face against his chest and breathing him in. He kept one arm around her and kept them steady by holding onto a bar.

"Sherlock!" she called, going in through the door, "John! We're home!"

"Greg and Molly as in 'we'!" Greg called out, sitting on the couch and reaching to get a cigarette but finding more gum instead. He growled and sighed.

"They know this is my house," Molly said confusedly (she was drunk, forgive her.)

"They dunno if I'll still be with you, though," he argued.

She laughed for no reason.

"I think they might be in the basement," she said, and walked towards the basement door, as she did this Greg leaned forward to drink the now-cold tea and grimaced.

"Sherlock! John!" she knocked on the door, "Are you still down there?" she opened the door, and heard nothing. Absolute silence.

"Well, I'm coming down!" she called again, "So you'd better not be having weird silent sex or whatever."

As she went down the stairs, she stood behind the couch and leaned over, looking at the two naked men, holding each other. Sherlock had his face in John's neck, and John seemed to be drooling in his sleep. They were completely naked and were sleeping so hard that Molly bet that they had a good time. She looked at the mess of clothes on the floor; pants, socks, shirts, stockings….stockings? And? Heels? What?

Molly was drunk but she was sure she wasn't high.

She laughed so loudly she thought she might wake them up (neither of them woke up). Then she started calling, "Greg! Greg, come down here!"

So, Greg very tiredly walked down the stairs to the basement.

"Come look over here," she said, bringing him over.

"Oh, they're naked, Moll," he scolded.

"Look, though, look," she instructed, "Those are heels."

He focused his eyes, "Oh my God…" he slurred, "You're right…"

"Kinky bastards," Molly whispered.

"Let's leave 'em alone, Moll," he said and pulled on her good hand, "We can wake up tomorrow and make fun of them."

"Sleep sounds good," she said, "Will you stay over and sleep with me?"

"Of course," Greg said, and they walked up towards the first floor, and they stripped down to their pants and climbed into Molly's bed where they kissed each other good night and promptly passed out.


	16. Chapter 16

Molly woke up with her head throbbing painfully on the inside of her forehead just above and behind her eyes. She felt an arm around her and turned around to see Greg was laying there, mouth open and snoring. The light streaming through her window made her blink hard. When she moved Greg's arm off of her she got out of bed to find that she was in the nude, she lifted the blanket off of Greg to find he was also naked.

She sat back on her bed and pulled out the drawers of her bedside table to find a pair of panties. As she was putting them on she rubbed her eyes (makeup came off, she hadn't washed her face before bed). What had happened last night? She remembered getting ready to go out (there was her clothes lying next to Greg's on the floor), she remembered letting Sherlock and John into her home and then leaving with Greg, she remembered climbing a fence to get away from some coppers, she remembered going to one of Greg's favorite pubs where she drank a pint of Guiness, that's where it seemed to get blurry….

The painful ache in her right knuckles (which hurt far more than her poor, hung-over head) hinted that she'd punched someone. And yes, memories came flooding back after the pain, someone had touched her, some guy, thinking it was "okay". So she tackled him to the ground, naturally, and bloodied his face with her fist until Greg pulled her off of him and away…in the Woman's toilet Molly and Greg stayed in and well….Greg had kissed her better.

She got more drunk, more pissed after that, she remembered, just _one _pint of Guinness couldn't make you _that _hung-over. They went to a different pub, that was right, and she stood around drinking and talking to the band they had played with before. Molly was able to drink three more pints, Greg drank five more pints. Which was why he was so passed out right now.

They had gotten home safely, that was obvious, and they'd done _something _right before they passed out in her bed, she knew that, but it wasn't sex.

It was at this time Molly heard a sharp crash coming from her kitchen, she heard it right as she was about to lay down next to her boyfriend again. She decided to get up and go find Sherlock and John, because maybe they could help cure her hangover and the sharp splinter-pains in her knuckles.

She pulled on Greg's _Dead Kennedys _shirt and then walked down the hall in just that and her pink panties. As she rounded the corner, she saw that Sherlock was smiling pleasantly at a book in his lap and drinking a cup of tea, the book, she couldn't see. He was fully dressed in yesterday's clothes.

"Good morning," she whispered.

He looked up fleetingly from his book to see her, "Morning," he whispered back, "You have a hangover."

"Yes," she whispered back putting her fingers to her temples.

"Who has a hangover?" John called rather loudly over the frying pan.

"Me," Molly whispered sharply, "And be quiet!" she went into the kitchen to find John in a similar outfit – a pair of men's pants and a t-shirt.

"Sorry," John whispered, "I'm making breakfast, I don't mean to make a mess but I thought me all might need it."

"Oh, yes, food, good, thank you, John. Is that bacon?" Molly asked looking over his shoulder.

"Yes," he whispered, "and take some aspirin and get some tea and juice to drink, it'll help."

"Thank you," she whispered and left that loud room of searing pans of bacon and scrambling eggs so she could go into her bathroom and get the aspirin from her medicine/makeup cabinet.

She looked at herself in the mirror: messy sex hair sticking up in frizzy directions, running and smudged eye-makeup that made it part way into her cheeks and far into her temples, and blood-shot eyes she could barely focus on.

"Oh God," she growled to herself, "I'm never drinking again."

And she took out to bottle of aspirin and swallowed four with help from her sink. What Molly Hooper meant by "I'm never drinking again" was "I'm never going to drink again if 'never' means in a week or so."

She sat down on her toilet to take a very miserable piss and when she recovered by washing her hands, face, wiping off her makeup and trying to rake a brush through her hair, she went back out into the sitting room and kitchen to find that Greg was in his jeans but was looking around concernedly.

His face lit up when he saw Molly, "There's my shirt!" he boasted.

" 'There's your shirt' is that what you were going to say, asswipe?" she hissed, smiling, she fell into him and pushed her face into his chest.

"Now, now, children," Sherlock tutted from somewhere, "Holding is for adults."

Molly untangled one arm to flick him off (or hopefully, her head-to-hand co-ordination wasn't at its best for the time being).

"Do you have any aspirin?" he whispered in her ear.

"In my bathroom," she whispered back and he left to go into his bathroom.

"Thank you for making breakfast, John," she said politely as he handed her a cuppa and she bent to look in her refrigerator for some juice.

"It's no problem," he said nicely, "This is actually me being selfish, I'm really hungry."

"This is you being selfish?" Molly beamed, "Sherlock, you Lucky Fucking Bastard," she leaned over to kiss John on the cheek and then went into the cupboards to get plates, "I'm going to set the table. We'll eat like a family or something."

"Not mine," Sherlock growled into his book.

"Hush," Molly and John both scolded him as Molly moved around to start setting the table: plates, napkins, silverware. Then moved back to get her a little tub of yoghurt and put some cinnamon in it.

"Gross," she heard Greg say next to her, "You put cinnamon in your yoghurt?"

"Shut up, it's bloody delicious," she said and sat down at the table to start eating. He sat down next to Molly, finally kissed her cheek "good morning", she smiled back at him.

As Sherlock watched John turn off all the burners, and bring the two saucepans (filled with bacon, sausage, and eggs) to the table, he set his book down and brought his tea over to the table to sit. Everyone wrestled for the best bit of eggs, crispiest pieces of bacon, and thanked John for his culinary endeavors.

"Yeah, this is really good, John," Greg praised.

"Thanks," John said, "Must've gotten it from watching my Mum so many years."

John got up one to get the toast out of the toaster and some jam for it. The rest of the hour was spent eating all of the food that John had made (which took some time, because John made a lot). Greg kept making quips about Molly's cinnamon yoghurt, but she spoon-fed him it, in a fit of sensitivity no one had seen before.

"We can be domestic too," Sherlock scoffed, "John, feed me."

"Feed yourself," John teased.

Greg and Molly laughed at them, and the rest of breakfast was spent with Molly, Greg, and Sherlock hunching over and talking about the band.

"I'm not going to bullshit you, Sherlock," Greg said, "We need a guitarist if we're going to make it in punk."

"Punk isn't about the music, punk is about the passion in it," Sherlock scoffed. As the conversation went on john pulled his chair closer to Sherlock's and leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder, trying to get in an after-eating nap.

When Sherlock heard the languid breathing of a sleeping John he put one arm around him, leaned back and continued the conversation.

"You don't even _know _if Anderson can play guitar," Sherlock argued.

"It was a joke," Greg clarified.

"How about I learn guitar?" Sherlock shrugged.

"Guitars and guitar lessons cost money," Molly said, "And time! We just need to find someone that already knows how and will play for our band."

"My family has money," Sherlock's eyes rolled.

"But not a time machine," Molly argued.

"You don't know that," Sherlock spat.

_"Oh, please," _Molly growled.

Greg immediately got between them, metaphorically at least, and stopped it. "I'll look around for a guitarist," he said, "and we don't have to accept them immediately. We'll just try them out and send them on their way if you don't like them" he said the last part to the both of them.

"And what if _you _don't like them?" Molly scoffed.

"I like everyone if I'm drunk enough," Greg shrugged.

"Speaking of being drunk," Sherlock said, "How's your knuckles, Molly?"

"I'll live," she said, "How did you know I broke them?"

"You can't close your fist all the way, and you always do when you're angry. While you've been exhibiting anger but you can't close your fist."

"Show-off."

"You asked."

"You look positively smitten with yourself."

"Using big words now, are we, Molly O'Hooper?"

"Why the _fuck _does everyone call me that?"

"You get Irish when you're angry," Greg simplified.

"It doesn't matter, my name doesn't have an O' near it."

"It's a good name," Greg flirted. (Sherlock was rolling his eyes somewhere.)

"It means 'rebellious' in Egyptian," she flirted back.

"Does it?" Greg sounded impressed. ("This isn't Egypt," Sherlock said.)

"Yeah, so I was basically made to be this way," Molly shrugged (throwing a knife at Sherlock).

"I like it," Greg smiled.

"Have I missed anything?" John said, waking up.

But the day ended sooner than expected and John and Molly finally decide they needed to find some trousers. Molly finally gave Greg his Dead Kennedys shirt back and put on a shirt of her own.

John went down to the basement to gather all his and Sherlock's things, happy no one else had seen them. Sherlock had left hand-in-hand, waving Greg and Molly good-bye.

("Do you want to stay one more night?" Molly asked, her voice heavy as she put one hand on Greg's bum. "Sure," he replied.)

"That was a lovely day," John said pleasantly to Sherlock as they walked back towards the tube.

"Mmmm," Sherlock agreed solemnly.

"Is it impossible for you to enjoy anything?" John's eyebrow twitched up.

"Only if it's illegal," Sherlock smiled down at his boyfriend.

John scoffed and rolled his eyebrows, "Are you walking me home then?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, and dropped John's hand instinctfully as they entered into the more populated area.

"Thank you," John said, but it didn't sound like it usually did when he said 'thank you'.

Sherlock looked confusedly at John, but didn't let a question pass from his lips.

John sighed heavily, "It just makes me upset that people wouldn't appreciate holding hands like Molly and Greg don't mind."

"Sentiment? You want to be able to hold my hand all the time?" Sherlock asked.

"Not just that," John shook his head angrily, "I want _everyone _to feel like they can hold their hand with the person they love."

"You're cute like that," Sherlock observed.

" _'Cute'?" _John repeated, eyebrow arching high, high up, "Sherlock I'm a lot of things but I'll be damned if I let you call me that."

"No, I just mean…" Sherlock said, still walking into the tube with John, "…you like people."

"So?" John asked.

"I don't like people," Sherlock explained.

"I know," John shrugged, "and you shouldn't have to. People are fucking bastards sometimes."

"Yes, I agree," Sherlock said, "but somehow you still like them."

"Can't lose all hope," John shrugged.

"Why not?"

"Because if you do, I guess you'd jump off a building or something daft like that," John said, stepping onto the tube with Sherlock.

"Commit suicide you mean," Sherlock said.

"Yes."

"Don't say it like that," Sherlock corrected, "There's many different ways to kill yourself."

John let his hand latch onto the taller man's just once in a state of worry.

_"I'd _never do that," Sherlock said disgustedly, "I have so much work to do, John. I'd never do that."

_"Good," _John said sharply, "You know I worry about you sometimes."

"Don't worry, John, I won't let myself get arrested," Sherlock assured him.

John nodded but he really wanted to say, _I don't mean just that. _But things that don't get said don't get answered.

As John and Sherlock stood in front of the door, Sherlock snogged John hard before letting him go into the house.

"I love you," Sherlock said into his lips.

"I love you too," John smiled, "I've had such a great time since we got to Molly's. I think we should do it again sometime soon."

"I concur," Sherlock smiled up against his lips.

_"I think Johnny's home!" _they heard inside the house. John shoved Sherlock off him as he jumped away from him. Two things happened at once: John giving Sherlock a sincerely sorry look and John's Mum opening the door.

"Hullo, Sherlock!" Mum boasted.

"Hullo," Sherlock replied.

"I see you've both got back here okay?" Mum asked.

"Yes," Sherlock and John said.

"Okay…" Mum replied, "Would you like to come in, Sherlock?"

"No, thank you," Sherlock said.

"Okay, luv," Mum said, leaving a trace of disappointment in her voice. She left the door open and give them room.

"I'm sorry," John said as soon as she was out of ear-shot, "I didn't mean to shove you."

"But you did," Sherlock argued.

"I'm sorry!" John cried out in earnest.

"Let's just not talk about it," Sherlock shook his head, and tried to walk away.

"No, let's talk about it," John tried to follow him and grab the sleeve of his coat, "I'm really sorry, are you hurt?"

"Oh, _come on, John," _Sherlock rolled his eyes hard, "I'm not hurt. Come on, let's just not talk about it."

"You can't do that!" John said pushing his fingers into his own temples, "We _have _to!"

"Johnny!" they heard Mum scream, "Close the door, you'll let the heat out."

"Come on, just come in," John said, trying to tug onto Sherlock's coat.

"For what?" Sherlock asked, "You won't let me touch you in front of anyone else!"

With that, Sherlock walked off in a fit of anger, palming his pocket and wishing he hadn't quit smoking.

John wanted to lay down in the dirt rather than go in and face the thing he knew he needed to do.


	17. Chapter 17

**A warning: **this chapter does not include any non-consensual sex.

* * *

John was lying down face-first on the floor of his bedroom, he'd found a long time ago when he was still a kid that it made him feel better to get on the floor and put his face into the carpet. Grounded. That was the word that he felt he was feeling. He needed to feel grounded because his life was helter skelter – or at least it was about to become helter skelter. He needed to feel grounded by getting on the ground, and then putting on combat boots, if he breathed deeply enough and imagined his feet sticking to the floor like they were glued there, maybe, he wouldn't feel too bad. Maybe he would surprise himself and be strong, maybe his voice wouldn't quiver, maybe he would be able to keep a serious and straight face when he told his parents.

But maybe maybe maybe just doesn't fucking cut it anymore.

John rolled over onto his back and looked at his ceiling, as he did this he bended his knees and put one hand over his heart and one hand on his stomach, palms facing open into his skin. He felt better somehow when he did this, like it was nurturing.

John let his eyelids drop – there was some languid chatting between his parents and Harry going on downstairs. He took lots of deep breaths and prepared himself for the night ahead. "Really, it shouldn't be this big of a deal," he mumbled to himself, "Really. I mean. It's…it's my own thing," he continued. And so did the talking downstairs. John didn't know who he was talking to, he would fancy he was praying – but he wasn't religious, nor did he account for himself to be very spiritual. Maybe this was his spiritual debut, so to speak.

"No, I don't fancy so," he decided finally, maybe people felt God's presence when they prayed? That wasn't what John was feeling, though. He wasn't feeling anything but daft.

As John stayed there, quietly in his little position, he looked serene from the outside, but you should hear the soundtrack to his thoughts in his mind. Guns going off and sirens blaring, chaos chaos chaos.

SOUNDTRACK – AMY AKA SPENT GLADIATOR 1 BY THE MOUNTAIN GOATS

And he would stay down in his little corner, because some people liked being holed up in their little corners. If they let you get close to them, they will whisper to you that corners make them feel safe. Kind of like a child, hiding in a wardrobe or under a table. "Why are you hiding under this table, little boy?" you could ask them crouching down and smiling at them. "Because it keeps me safe," he'll answer. "That's silly," you could say. "Well, nothing bad has happened to me yet," the little boy will say. And you'll just have to nod, and agree, what else are you going to do for a little boy hiding in his corner?

John was suddenly very violently pulled from his little corner, though. There was a deep, threatening shout, his Dad's screaming, "YOU WHAT?!"

John is a lot of things, and slow to respond is not one of them. He got up from his position without thinking and took the stairs down two at a time, before he got to the scene. His sister, Harry, was sitting there (in the stockings that John had often stolen from her) she was looking defiant and tearful. His father was losing himself in a flailing anger and his Mum was holding her own face in her hands.

"She's just a child!" his Mum cried out, "Children make mistakes!"

"I'm not a child, this is how I am!" Harry threw back, even more tearful now, "and you have no idea how much I want to change it."

"Then change it, Harriet!" Dad screamed, "Change it now!"

"I can't!" she screeched out in a disgruntled defiance.

"This is your own damn fault, you know that Harriet Watson?" he sneered at her.

"What's going on?" John asked to his Mum.

"Your sister is what's going on, John," his father answered in lieu of his mother.

"This is a time, we all need to stick together," Mum said, in a fit of optimism and tears, "We just need to stick together to get through this _for Harry. _We can _help _her change!"

"There's no changin' it," she sniffled into her shirt, and a choked sob, "This is how I'm going to be for the rest of my life."

"What?" John asked silently barely under his voice, "What's going on?"

"I'm so, _so _disappointed in you, Harriet," his father's voice shook with contempt, "What I could do to you right now…"

And John was able to get between his father and his sister before his father could finish the thought in any way. "Stop it," he ordered his father, and gripped his boots to the spot, "This won't do any good. I don't know what Harry did or who she is now, but I know that nothing she could've done would make you think hitting her would make it any better."

He saw his father's face shake with a contempt and he knew that if he was going to live to see another day in his life, he should let go now.

"Dad, I have something to tell you!" John shouted at his father.

"Not now, John," his father shook his head.

"No, _now," _John argued, and he suddenly knew that if there was anything that needed to be said in a family crisis it needed to be shouted, "Dad, I'm gay."

"Oh, come on," Dad shook his head, like John was making a joke. It was funny that John thought that the air would have been sucked out of the room after he said that, but his father was brushing it off like it was nothing. And, therefore, he was nothing.

"I'm being serious, Dad!" John shouted, and let go of his father, let go of his grip on him, "Sherlock is my boyfriend, and I've _been_ gay all my life." John decided not to further with the _And I'm really proud to be gay, I wouldn't change a thing, Sherlock and I are in love. Real love. And no one will change that. _It seemed a little too gay. In fact, what he'd already said, seemed a little too gay.

It was amazing that as he said these things, he couldn't hear Harry crying anymore, but he couldn't _see _her, so there was no way of telling if she was still just crying silently or not. His Mum was silent still, but looking on.

In response to his proclamation, his father smacked him hard with the back of his hand across the face. "Get out, John," he said, to his son, "No one needs you around right now. We're dealing with real problems here."

John was visibly shaking from the shock of receiving the blow, and then, without thinking he went to the door and opened it to leave.

"John…?" his mother whined as he closed the door behind him.

"What a load of bollocks," his father shook his head at his sister, whose face was covered in snot, saliva, and tears, also the trace of a nosebleed – the sure sign of a panic attack, "A daughter who's a drinker and a son that thinks he's a homosexual! Humph! What have we done?"

John was tumbling around in the closing autumn cold, it wasn't winter yet, but it felt cold when he'd forgotten his jacket. He was still processing the events that had happened as they hit him in waves. What was wrong with his big sister? What was going on with his parents? What was his Mum thinking? What just happened? What is he doing out in the cold?

As John walked on and on in a unknown direction he watched his boots: right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. And again. The tears came first as they washed down his cheeks in an uninvited ritual of salt. Then the sniffling and then the actual crying. The crying that makes sounds and makes your shoulders shake, and your chin wobbles and soon you're a complete mess. As John did this, he looked up at the sky trying to remember the last time he'd cried, and instead was answered with the way constellations look.

So John stayed there, with his cold hands in his jumper pockets, looking at the night sky on a lonely Sunday. It felt lonely to him. He was looking straight up, craning his neck, and the tears that were falling were falling past his temples and into his hair. As he relaxed his neck back, he looked over and saw that he was a very short distance away from The Fountain.

The Fountain made him think of Sherlock. And Sherlock made him think of billions of other things attatched to strings attatched to Sherlock in his mind. Sherlock made him think of cigarettes. And packs of gum. And cum. And condoms. And cadavers. And punk. And violins. And bands. And his band. And Molly and Greg. And the night at Molly's house. And the day after at Molly's house. He could go on and on like this: he could stand in front of a fountain and think of all the things that made him think of Sherlock.

So he broke out into a run. He wasn't just running to get somewhere quickly, but it felt better to run. If you're moving, you're doing something, and if you're doing something, you have control of your life. Right?

He was finally able to make it to Sherlock's abode. It was huge, he'd only been there a few times before. But it was instantly sobering for him to know that Sherlock was inside that house – safe.

He went right up to the door, and started knocking violently.

A man, not old enough to be Sherlock's father, but still much older than Sherlock himself, opened the door with a glass of scotch in one hand, wearing a scowl.

"My apologies but we don't do Jesus or – " he tried to explain.

"I'm not here for Jesus," John stammered, "I'm here for Sherlock, is he here?"

"Sherlock?" the man looked taken aback, putting one hand on his waistcoat, "He's up in his room, I think he's sleeping."

_Sherlock? Sleep?_

"Could you please just get him for me, please?" John pleaded and the tears started flowing down his cheeks again and he violently pushed them away.

The man's eyes widened greatly as he saw the emotion so plain on the young man's face. "Um…come, come in?" he stammered and let John in. As the door closed behind him, the man put the scotch down on an end table and galloped up the stairs to the second floor. John stood there wringing his hand in the front entry way of the Holmes Residence and tried to gather his thoughts.

In just under a minute Sherlock was running down the stairs and was directly in front of his boyfriend in two seconds, "What happened? Are you hurt? Tell me? Who did this to you? Where can I find them? I will beat them to death. It's okay, I won't let anything happen to you anymore," Sherlock ran his mouth and then hugged John so close to his chest John could barely breathe. John was able to wrap his arms around Sherlock and gripping the younger man so tight.

"Please," John said into his chest, although he didn't know what he was asking for.

"Come on," Sherlock said and wrapped one arm around him and walked him up the stairs.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, the two of them going into his room.

"No, I'm fine, I'm fine, Sherlock," John said, and started pacing the room, "I'm fucking fine, I'm fucking fine," he chanted.

"I don't think you're fine," Sherlock observed in what was hopefully an easing tone.

"I'm fucking fine, Sherlock, I'm fucking fine!" John argued, "It's other people that are fucked up beyond the point of giving any – any caring to anyone else! Their family, the people they love. God, you would think that people – that people would you know like you or believe you because you I don't know made their existence but I don't know, Sherlock, I guess fucking not. Because I don't fucking know what the fuck I bloody did that made me to put me in this fucking position, mate. I don't fucking know, Sherlock, I don't fucking know! Come on, Sherlock, you're fucking clever, you're the cleverest rat fucking bastard I've met in my whole god-damned life. Tell me what the fuck I did to deserve to be put in whatever shit decision of a mindfuck this fucking is. I don't know what the fuck I did, I don't know what the fuck I did."

"Okay, say that again except this time breathe," Sherlock prompted his boyfriend.

SOUNDTRACK – SAILING THROUGH BY NEUTRAL MILK HOTEL

"Do you know what I fucking want, Sherlock?" John said and got right up in Sherlock's face, and he grabbed Sherlock's t-shirt in both of his fists and he started a growling monologue, "I want _this, _Sherlock. I want you near me, touching me all the time. I'm not asking for fucking much, Sherlock! And you know what?! I don't even fucking care what any stranger thinks and to be really bloody fucking honest all I want is for my family to be _remotely _okay with you! That's all I fucking want and I think I'm not asking for much. So, yes, Sherlock, I want you. I want you with me, touching me, loving me, all the fucking time, and everyone who doesn't like it can stick something up their arses because I don't care. And I want you with me, and I don't care if I sound selfish when I ask for it."

Sherlock tried to lean forward to give John a calming kiss on the lips with both hands on either side of his face but John intruded himself in Sherlock's space and kissed him furiously. Their tongues crashing together and teeth grinding painfully up against teeth.

"You're upset," Sherlock tried to argue.

"I don't give a shit, fuck the thinking out of me," John demanded.

Sherlock growled into John's mouth and pushed him violently onto the bed, he grabbed the end of John's shirt and tangled it off of him and sucked his mouth onto his nipple. In return, John tried to wrestle off Sherlock's trousers and shirt simultaneously in a fit of anger. Soon, their clothes had been torn off each other's bodies, sometimes so careless and in such anger that they left red marks on their skin where their fingernails had snagged each other.

SOUNDTRACK – THE KILLING TYPE BY AMANDA PALMER AND THE GRAND THEFT ORCHESTRA

"I fucking love you, I fucking love you and I'm gonna fucking fuck you out of your mind, I fucking love you," Sherlock growled into John's mouth while he was pulling John's curls.

"You rat bastard, do me fucking now," John growled back and grabbed for Sherlock's cock in between their heated bodies.

Sherlock growled and then bit into John's shoulder as he felt the pressure on his cock.

"Let me get condoms," Sherlock said trying to roll over and get to his bedside table.

"No, fuck the condoms," John groaned through clenched teeth. Sherlock shoved John over onto his stomach and pulled John's hips forward so he could push the tip of his cock up against his arsehole. Sherlock spit into his hand and then rubbed his cock, eliciting a harder throbbing.

"Bite the pillow," Sherlock ordered as he pushed his cock into John's arse, and he moaned out as he did it. He had never, and surely himself and John, had never done it without a condom. It was definitely different.

"Come on you fucking piss-punk fuck me as hard as you can, fuck me as hard as you hate the coppers," John ordered.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and decided; well, he did hate the coppers. So he bent forward and grabbed John's hair and brought him up to concavely arch his back and fuck into his prostate.

"You like this? You like it fucking rough?" Sherlock moaned.

"Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck."

"I knew you'd had a little fucking piss-punk in you, John. God, you're so fucking perfect with my cock in you like this," Sherlock's eyes rolled up into his brain.

"Shut the fuck up and fuck me like you fucking mean it, fucking punk."

"Fuck you, I'll do you however the fuck I like."

"Don't make me fucking spank you, Holmes," John warned.

Sherlock laughed, "Wouldn't you like that, Johnny? Little fucking sadist."

"Oh fuck!" John moaned out, and whined out, trying to grab the wall for purchase and pushing his bum harder into Sherlock's hips, and then moaning into a pillow, _"I'm coming."_

Sherlock bucked into him as hard as he possibly could, and as he was coming, John heard the rasping noises and knew that Sherlock was choking himself. Although, Sherlock's fist was still planted firmly in John's hair and John had no way of wringing around so he could get his hands around Sherlock's throat like he knew Sherlock wanted.

They both fell on each other spunk and all, panting and gasping for breath. Sherlock pulled his spent cock out of John and John gave a small moan as he did this.

"I fucking love you, you little fuck," John said and rolled on top of Sherlock, pushing their mouths together, and sliding their tongues in each other's mouths.

"I love you too," Sherlock said fondly. John was then trying to rub his cock against Sherlock's cock.

"You want to go again?" he whined.

"Are you bruised yet?" Sherlock asked.

"No."

"We're not done until we're both bruised."

And they bruised each other, with John wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's neck on top of him and watching him wank, he was so aroused. He couldn't hear the words he was trying to say, but he could see Sherlock mouth the words SO GOOD over and over as he came again.

Sherlock mercilessly bruised Sherlock by getting on top of John's cock and making him sit up so he could ride him.

"Stay like that," John whispered into Sherlock's ear, which made it that more sensual. And John gripped Sherlock's hips and dug his fingernails into his skin as he pounded into him from under him.

Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched together and his mouth opened so John could see the back of his throat. "You like being fucked like this?"

Sherlock let his head drop onto John's shoulder and he moaned out.

"Oh, you're really enjoying this, aren't you?" John teased.

Sherlock violently nodded his head, "Dome domefuckinghard."

John was about to lift one hand to crush Sherlock's wind-pipe again, but he came on John's stomach before he could think to do that.

"I love seeing your cum," John informed him and continued to pound into him for personal gain.

Sherlock fell over onto the messed up bed, and begged for "just a five minute break". And John curled up next to him and pushed his body into Sherlock's so he was spooning him.

"Whatever you want, Sherlock," he whispered into his ears and as Sherlock panted, his breaths became less heavy and then they evened. And after that they seemed totally relaxed and when John figured that he'd fallen asleep he was drifting off to sleep too.

There was no locks between them and the baddies, it felt like. Because now John felt like a baddy. That didn't matter much though, because it doesn't matter much about anything else if you're curled up next to a lover you love.

Somewhere Mycroft was losing his mind because he was pretty sure he just listened to Sherlock fuck his boyfriend.

* * *

**Just angry sex. **


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock's alarm blared at him in loud _beep-beep-beeps, _as he sneared and reached over to turn it off, he felt something stopping him. He went back to his position, twisted and looked down to a John Watson curled up next to him and holding Sherlock like he was John's life-sized teddy bear. Sherlock's face relaxed into a smile then, and he then leaned over again to turn off his alarm clock.

They had fallen asleep without a blanket over them, exposed to anyone who had the gull to walk into Sherlock's bedroom without knocking. Sherlock's purple bed-covers were in angry tangles at the foot of the bed (and mostly thrown off).

In the moments that Sherlock had turned off his alarm clock and before he could make a decision of what to do next he thought of a few possibilities: a) twist over in John's arms and kiss him awake b)lie down as is and not disturb John's slumber c) slip from John's arms and get the blankets to pull over the both of them so they could sleep more soundly, and d) twist around and wake up John with a hand job. Sherlock was thinking more of the "d" variety of waking-up possibility. Then he heard John's wake-up groan and new that he couldn't enact on any of these possibilities. He did do "a" though.

"Morning," Sherlock said, pushing his lips into his lover's.

"G'mrrrninng," John attempted to reply, and instead of waking himself further in an attempt to be more coherent he placed his face into Sherlock's chest, yawned, re-captured his lover's body in his arms and promptly fell back asleep.

"You're tired," Sherlock observed, "Too much fun last night?"

John snored in reply.

"John."

Snoring.

"John."

Snoring.

_"John."_

Continued snoring.

"John, it's Monday."

_"IT'S MONDAY?!" _John screeched, and gasp-yawning, had a semi-spazz attack and part-exorcism right off of bed.

"Yes, John, it's Monday," Sherlock informed his lover, who was lying stark-naked on his back on the floor of his cluttered room, "You have Biology in an hour and rugby after-hours."

John promptly got up, circled around the room in a panicked and seemed to make some sort of display explaining centrifugal force with his arms. He was shouting things that seemed incoherent to Sherlock (who was by now sitting up in bed) but made perfect sense to him, there were some words that Sherlock caught though, like "bag. Rugby. Shoes. Monday. Wallet. Keys. Fuck. Oh no. Oh God. Where. What," and then a continued flurry of words about his schoolbag and his keys.

The performance John gave was so fantastic Sherlock felt that he must applaud, but somewhere his mind was telling him that this was a social no-no.

"John, calm down, it's okay, we'll stop at your house before we go to school," Sherlock reasoned.

"IT'S NOT OKAY THEY'VE LOCKED ME OUT I DON'T HAVE MY KEYS!" John shouted, making a claw with one hand and looking completely distressed.

"John."

"WHAT?!"

"Your Mum doesn't have a job."

"SO?!"

"So, she's a stay-at-home Mum and she's going to be home this morning to let you in the house and get your things."

John looked so infuriated with himself he thought he might scream.

Instead there was a flurry of panic as Sherlock and himself tried to wrestle on their clothes they recovered from the floor, and Sherlock slung his knapsack shoulderbag over one shoulder, and leaving they both waved to Mycroft that was concentrating rather hard on a bowl of oatmeal and shaking his head at the two as they left through the door.

"Can't deal with it," he told the oatmeal.

As they walked past that Fountain, and down the stairs into the tube system, Sherlock bought them both a tube ticket, and John held Sherlock's hand and said "thank you".

"You're welcome," Sherlock said, and as they entered the tube, John very openly kissed Sherlock on the mouth, and Sherlock looked surprised.

"You know what?" John said, "I really don't care anymore."

"So that wasn't just banter," Sherlock said, "You really just want to be with me."

"Yes," John said.

_"Poofters," _someone on the tube muttered.

Sherlock jerked towards the culprit, and John touched his elbow lightly, taking him back, tiredly he said, "Imagine how much you'd have to beat someone up if you retaliated every time someone says that," John shrugged, and his eyes turned exhausted, "That's too much."

"Okay," Sherlock said, looking just as exhausted.

The stranger continued to sneer and gawk at them, and then, Sherlock lowered his head onto John's shoulder. "I want a cigarette," he whined.

"I know," John whispered back, "but you're going to be okay without one."

"No, I won't," he whined dramatically, "I'm going to die."

"You're going to die if you _have _one, Sherlock," John whispered and nuzzled his nose into Sherlock's curls (much to the chagrin of the homophobic bastard passenger.)

As they got off the tube they walked hand-in-hand to John's house, Sherlock angrily chomping his gum and huffing loudly, and the looking to John and smiling and giving him pecks on the cheek.

"If you don't mind," Sherlock said, "I'm going to kiss you all the time now."

"I'd love that," John replied, and they stopped at the front of their door, John put on hand forward to knock and then pulled it back at the very, very last second and stepped backwards. He looked at Sherlock and then his hands, and back at Sherlock.

"We can't wait here in front of this door forever, John," Sherlock whispered, "the same outcome is going to be behind it no matter what time you choose to go through it."

"That doesn't make me less scared," John said.

"I'll hold your hand," Sherlock said, and grabbed his hand in John's, and together John went forward to knock on the door, and just before he did his Mum opened it up.

"Hullo!" she said, she wiped her tired, blood-shot eyes, and Sherlock knew immediately she'd been crying, "Both of you boys come in here right-away! You might catch cold if you don't."

They both stepped in and Sherlock watched John's Mum bustle about as they stood there, gawking stupidly. "Johnny, sweetie, your rugby bag is up in your room, I suggest you get it now if you don't want to be late."

"Thanks, Mum," John nodded neurotically and let go of Sherlock's hand so he could run up the stairs. Sherlock wanted desperately to run after him, so he didn't have to be alone in the house without him.

Sherlock shuffled his feet, nervously, and looked at Mum looking at him, and she broke the silence by saying, "Johnny told us last night."

"He did," Sherlock said, keeping his voice even, not letting the shock come into his voice. Sherlock could tell something definitely happened to John that strongly affected him (or the unprotected sex wouldn't have happened) and he guessed that a coming out had happened, and was pleased to see he was right.

"Yes," Mum said, "and I just want to tell you, I don't get it, but if you're in my house, and my Johnny loves you as much as he says, then you are always welcome."

"Thank you, ma'am," Sherlock said sincerely, as most sincere as he'd ever been during a thank you.

"You can call me 'Mum' now," she nodded, and smiled.

"Thank you, Mum," Sherlock replied without hesitation, and Sherlock came bounding down the stairs with his ruby bag slung over one shoulder, his schoolbag over another, and his keys in his hand.

John instinctfully went towards Mum and kissed her on the cheek goodbye, and then went out the door with Sherlock, both waving.

"Bye, Mum!" Sherlock waved excitedly and grabbed John's hand before the door closed.

"Did you just call her 'Mum'?" John asked, taken aback.

"That's what she said I could call her," Sherlock said, he was trying to work a scowl on his face. No, no, don't look excited, it isn't cool to be excited about things.

"That's totally brilliant," John smiled widely, and giggled, "that's bloody fucking brill."

"Did you not think she'd…?"

"No," John said, and as they walked he told his story.

"He hit you?" Sherlock said, and the weight left his voice, and then angrily, "He _fucking hit you?"_

"Calm down, Sherlock, calm down," John said, trying to calm his boyfriend, "He didn't hit me because, I'm, you know, queer. In fact, I think he thought it was a joke. He hit me because he thought I was fucking around during a serious time."

"You know that was brave of you," Sherlock said, very clearly, "You know that, right? For going in for your sister. For saying that. You're a hero, John Watson."

"No, I'm not," John shook his head, disdainfully, "My _Mum _is a hero. Being nice to us, nice to _you, _Dad won't be happy about it."

"I like your Mum," Sherlock said happily, "Your Mum is great."

They walked in silence for a while, because John was smiling to himself and looking at his and Sherlock's feet walk together, and suddenly he asked, "How come I haven't met your family?"

"Technically, you have," Sherlock replied, "You saw Mycroft last night."

"Your brother."

"Yes."

"He looked rather dashing for someone staying at home."

"Ugh, please never call my brother 'dashing' again," Sherlock groaned.

"My apologies, luv," John said and squeezed his hand.

As they got to the front gates of the school (now sufficiently late, as they'd taken their time doing everything from leaving Sherlock's home) they kissed each other goodbye with no one around. Sherlock watched his boyfriend go down the hallway of the school.

On his way up the steps to his own class he saw Lestrade going down.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said.

"Oi, mate," Greg was grinning rather broadly, Sherlock decided to follow Lestrade because he really wasn't in any mood to go back to class and be told to _sit there and listen _when he just wanted to keep a steady pace of walking.

"I'm going to the outside yard," Lestrade informed him, "I really want a smoke, mate."

"I concur, mate," Sherlock nodded.

"Shall we relapse together?" Lestrade asked, "There's a corner store not just a block or so from here."

Sherlock panted, and almost began to vomit, "I really want to."

"But John," Lestrade finished.

"Yes, John," Sherlock nodded, "No, I'll skip the relapse. Keep it in my pocket, as you'd say, for uh…a worse day."

"Not so good today?"

"Actually pretty good today," Sherlock replied to his older friend and best mate.

They sat in the bleachers at the pitch, Greg having decided that he would hold off his relapse for at least an hour if he could, but he was shaking and he knew that if Sherlock let him – he'd fly to the corner store to get a carton of camels.

Sherlock told Greg all about last night (discluding the sex bits, just the neurotic John bits) and about the morning after and how he'd learnt that John had told his family the night before that he was queer and with a man, and that his Dad punched him (Greg grimaced in empathy pain at this). It also surprised Sherlock of how fantastic a listener Greg Lestrade was, he sat with his back up against the bleacher seat behind him and nodded, intently looking at Sherlock as he told his story.

And it was amazing, Sherlock saw, of how much clearer things seemed to look when he just talked about it out loud to someone. Sherlock was hunched forward, complete opposite of Greg's lean-backwards. Sherlock found himself putting two finger to his lips like he was smoking, but he wasn't, and he tore into his pack of gum again and found he didn't have any left.

"Do you have any gum, Greg?" Sherlock asked.

"No," Greg replied, "that's why I was going to the corner-store, so I could relapse."

"You could just as easily get a pack of gum."

"A smoker cannot go into a shop that sells fags and gum and come out with gum," Lestrade said plainly.

Sherlock laughed in a self-deprecating way, he spoke the truth.

"I think there's something in my trousers though," Greg said thoughtfully, and Sherlock watched as Greg put one hand into his trousers pocket, look extremely confused at what his fingers found, and then pull out a pair of what looked to be lace red panties.

"What," Sherlock said.

"I'm still wearing these trousers?" Greg asked to himself.

* * *

**End. **


End file.
